


no place for promises

by pan_dora



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bad Alpha Scott McCall (Teen Wolf), Blackmail, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Chimera!Stiles, Dread Doctors - Freeform, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Ito Pack, Jealousy, M/M, Manipulation, Manipulative Relationship, Mildly Dubious Consent, Murder, Nemeton, Possessive Behavior, Slow Burn, Underage Drinking, chimera pack, mentions of underage drug use, physical violence, season 5B AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2020-07-09 22:16:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 33
Words: 215,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19895218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pan_dora/pseuds/pan_dora
Summary: Loud footsteps fall in sync to his rapidly beating heart. Unable to look away, Stiles sees Scott fly out of the house out of the corner of his eye. “This is too dangerous,” Scott urges, saying what Stiles is thinking – trusting Theo with his father’s life is like throwing sticks into the fire hoping they won’t burn. And what if he doesn’t find the nemeton? What if he can’t uphold his side of the deal? “We’ll find another way.”But when? How? What other way is there?Stiles sets his jaw. Theo banks on him moving heaven and hell to protect his father. There’s only one way this conversation can end. “I’ll do it.”





	1. the deal

_He’ll come to me_. Stiles has rarely been this sure about something but when it comes to Theo things are different. He knows Theo like the back of his hand. It doesn’t follow any logic or sense. He _sees_ Theo. Not so much with his eyes as with his whole being. There’s no secret Theo can keep. No lie Theo can tell. That’s almost as terrifying as it is satisfying – hence why he knew Theo would come to him, that’s why he’s aware Theo will never fall for Scott’s plan. His t-shirt will never cover up the second heartbeat.

A shadow falls over him. Stiles casts his eyes upwards – from the line of mountain ash to the white Converse behind it and up to that stupid smirk. Theo smirks entirely too much, Stiles decides ignoring his heart jumping into his throat. He shouldn’t be this confident without a pack, allies, anybody on his side, yet Theo seems to hold all the cards.

Because of Stiles.

Because he asked him to come.

Theo steps over the line of mountain ash, glances at it as if to get a point across. His eyes find Stiles’ easily before he says, “guess we’re all telling the truth now.”

Stiles can’t reply; he can’t even move. Both his tongue and his body feel leaden. He knows he’s supposed to throw Scott’s shirt at Theo for an explanation for the scent – as if Theo believed Stiles would hug Scott’s clothes to his chest, as if that made the heartbeat go away. Belated, long after Theo picked up on the second person hiding on the stairs, Stiles finds his voice, “you killed my best friend.” His mouth forms around the words as if he’s reading from a book in a foreign language; heavy, awkward, mispronounced.

Theo’s gaze darts back towards him. “Let’s be honest, Stiles, is he still really your best friend?”

 _Is_. The present tense doesn’t escape him. Stiles swallows around the lump in his throat, watches silently as Theo’s eyes drag back towards the landing of the staircase behind him. He takes a breath. “Are you going to let my father die?”

“If I wanted him to die,” Theo says, voice hardening a fraction when his attention shifts back to Stiles, “I wouldn’t have told you where you can find him.” His lips tighten, curl into a disapproving line as if the question insulted him or something. It’s hard to imagine why Theo considers it as so rude, seeing that he killed Scott without a flicker of hesitation. He can’t really imagine that Stiles believes the sheriff’s safety concerns him even in the slightest.

Yet, he clearly does.

 _‘What do you want_?’ Stiles would like to ask. Instead he says, “then why are they saying his body’s shutting down?” He pushes himself to his feet, body heavy and legs feeling like rubber. Despite everything, a flicker of doubt remains. What if Theo doesn’t know? What if he doesn’t _care_? “That some toxin’s poisoning him and they don’t know how to stop it?” Standing this close, every muscle in his body goes taught to keep the anger in check, to stop him from slamming Theo against the wall and tear him limb from limb.

Something in Theo’s expression changes. Although the smirk remains, the arrogance leaves his eyes. He licks his lips, maintains eye-contact. “I’m not the bad guy, Stiles.”

“What is wrong with my dad?” Fury and panic make for a dangerous cocktail, and Stiles steps closer using the little height advantage he has on the other boy. His hands curl into fists at his sides.

Theo relaxes his shoulders, pushes his hands in the pockets of his pants. “I don’t know.”

The returning force of his smirk rips away the bit of control Stiles had over himself. Without warning or hesitation, he moves forwards. His fist connects with Theo’s jaw, sends him stumbling backwards. The memory from the confrontation at the parking lot repeats. Stiles hears the laughter. _There he is_. Theo catches himself at the edge of the front porch, presses his fingertips against his jaw. He doesn’t smile or grin or laugh. Instead, he looks positively angry.

Stiles strikes again, knuckles burning from the first impact. Briefly he wonders how often he can punch a supernatural creature until the bones in his hand finally break. This is not the time he figures it out.

Theo catches his fist before it connects. He grabs him by his hoodie, hurls him around with a snarl. They’re too close to the edge of the front porch. Stiles loses his footing and his balance. Theo doesn’t let go but doesn’t prevent the fall either. A small icy panic curls its fist around his heart. His reflex kicks in and he tries to free his hand, to somehow lessen the blow but Theo doesn’t let go of him.

He hits the ground hard. Pain jolts through his body, shoves the air out of his lungs. A groan slips past his lips Stiles would’ve rather kept hidden.

“ _But_ ,” Theo spits lowering his face until their noses almost touch, “I can help you.” Settling on top of his thighs, he pins his wrists to the grass. His grip is forceful enough to hurt. Whatever benevolence Theo used to have for him seems to be gone. That’s the face Scott must’ve looked at before he was killed.

Suddenly, Stiles is not so sure about Theo’s intentions anymore.

“I can help your dad.”

“How?” His voice trembles with pain and desperation, but the words kicked a bit of hope loose.

The smirk returns and wipes out the anger completely – like a mask slipped on. Theo lets go of Stiles’ left hand, curls his fingers around his chin instead. “You bring me to him, of course,” he says not without an air of condescension. Blue eyes dart over his face until they lock with Stiles’ again sparkling with an obscure mixture of anger and hubris.

It’s not that easy. It can’t be that easy. Stiles has to swallow the premature acceptance of the terms. “What do you want in return?” 

A chuckle ripples through Theo’s body. “You’re going to take me to the nemeton.”

Stiles’ stomach contorts violently. He takes a deep breath, tries to get rid of the nausea crawling up his throat. There’s no way he’ll find the nemeton. He doesn’t even know where to start looking. The last time he found it he had to _die_. They don’t have time for this. He doesn’t have Lydia to pull him back.

Loud footsteps fall in sync with his rapidly beating heart. Unable to look away, Stiles sees Scott fly out of the house out of the corner of his eye. “This is too dangerous,” he urges, saying what Stiles is thinking – trusting Theo with his father’s life is like throwing sticks into the fire hoping they won’t burn. And what if he doesn’t find the nemeton? What if he can’t uphold his side of the deal? “We’ll find another way.”

But when? How? What other way is there?

Stiles sets his jaw. Theo banks on him moving heaven and hell to protect his father. There’s only one way this conversation can end. “I’ll do it.”

Theo’s hand falls away from his upper arm seconds before the elevator doors slide open soundlessly. He straightens his shoulders and doesn’t look at Stiles when he steps into the hallway. “Run away or screw me over,” he tells him in a low voice smiling at a nurse hurrying past them, “and your dad’s dead.” A glance out of the corner of his eye, another smile. “That counts until you find the nemeton.”

Hands curled into tight fists, Stiles swallows his temper. “I know.”

The hallway is mostly empty which is good because Stiles doesn’t have the energy talk their way into his father’s room. Even though, ever since the supernatural has overtaken their town, it’s not like normal rules apply to this hospital any longer – and as the sheriff’s only son as well as having been here every day for hours on end when he was younger, the staff knows and mostly ignores him; hence why they reach his dad’s room without running into any problems. The only real one would’ve been Melissa anyway. 

Uneasiness crawls up his spine. Stiles hates hospitals. Most people do, probably. The thick scent of antiseptic and medicine makes him feel nauseous, uncomfortable. Every fibre of his body wants him to turn around and walk right back out of the hospital. Death waits around every corner reaching for his dad, waiting for him to take his final breath. Stiles shudders involuntarily, steps closer to Theo, then away and bumps against the wall in the process. 

His feet are bound to the floor with invisible weights. Although the walk from the elevator to his dad’s hospital room barely takes half a minute, Stiles feels as if he’s been walking for hours on end. Every single step costs more strength than he has. He forces his legs to move, pushes through the exhaustion buried deep within his bones. Too much and not enough time has passed from the moment in front of the animal clinic to now. His father was supposed to be getting better. Melissa told him he’s okay. 

But he isn’t. He’s lying in this strange bed, dying from some toxin, dying from the supernatural. That’s why Stiles never wanted him to know, that’s why he wanted him to stay out of everything. Because he knew, deep down he’s always known that eventually, the supernatural will kill one of them - and Stiles is selfish. He wanted it to be him, not his dad. He dragged Scott into the woods, he was the one who knocked over the first domino. If someone had to die, it should’ve been him - not Allison, not Erica, not Boyd and especially not his father. 

Theo opens the door and slips into the room not looking back. Stiles follows him, fingers trembling. His father lies partially hidden underneath his covers, motionless, poison turning his veins black. The machines’ constant beeping brings back memories he’d rather forget. He’s nine years old again, nine years and terrified of losing his mother. Nothing has changed growing up. Death and grief haven’t made him harder, haven’t formed or strengthened him. If he loses his dad- the thought springs on him, even though it has crept about in the back of his mind, and knocks his legs out from underneath him.

With a choked off sob, Stiles collapses against the wall, presses both hands over his mouth to cover any other noise threatening to slip past his lips. He can’t do anything about the tears or his heartrate. But if he breaks down with Theo around, he’d rather do it in absolute silence.

Blinking tears away, Stiles watches as Theo bends over his father. He can’t see his face, can’t tell what he’s doing. There’s no other sound, only that of the machines keeping his father alive. His dad’s chest is rising and falling slowly but constantly, almost creating the illusion that he’s not currently dying. Stiles’ eyes trail the dark veins, all too visible in comparison to the ashen skin. His stomach contorts again, and Stiles puts his head between his knees, closes his eyes. _Breathe_ , he tells himself, _just breathe_. It’s going to be all right. It’s going to be okay. Theo will find what’s wrong with his dad. Stiles will find the nemeton. His dad is going to be okay. And safe. And they can all live happily ever after.

They have to.

His dad has to be okay again.

Stiles takes a deep breath. And another one. He squeezes his eyes shut until lights explode behind his lids, covers his ears until he can’t hear anything but his own rapid heartbeat. _Breathe_. He follows his own advice, breathes in through his nose, counts to five and breathes out through his mouth. _That’s it_. His father is going to be okay, and Stiles will get through this without a panic attack. Theo will turn around any second to tell him that he figured out what’s wrong with his dad, they’ll tell Melissa, she will explain everything to Liam’s dad, and everything will be peachy.

They will survive this just like they’ve survived everything else.

A foot nudges his own. Stiles lowers his hands, wraps his arms around his legs and looks up at Theo. The seconds they look at each other feel like an eternity stretching between them. His face is impossible to read. No smirk. No pity. Just a cold, empty mask. Stiles swallows, parts his lips for a question. The words get stuck in his throat when Theo crouches down in front of him.

“Do you know what berserkers smell like?” Theo asks crossing his arms over his thighs. He behaves as if they have all the time in the world. “They smell like rotting meat and bone marrow. Two scents that don’t mingle too well.” The smile creeps back on his lips, and for a second Stiles allows himself to pretend that it’s genuine; a feeling he loses the second Theo continues talking, “underneath the heavy scent of sickness and death, I smelled something sweet.“ This is a joke to him. Theo thrives on having Stiles at his mercy, on holding his dad’s life in his hands. “He’s poisoned by bone marrow. There’s a piece stuck inside of him.”

His mind goes a thousand miles per hour. Relief, confusion and the terror of his father undergoing another surgery in his current state make it hard to breathe. They have to open him up again. They have to cut him open to get it out - how did they miss it the first time? Why weren’t the doctors _looking_ thoroughly? It’s their fucking job. 

Theo doesn’t give him a lot of time to adjust. “Your turn.” His grip on Stiles’ upper arm is vice-like when he hauls him to his feet.

The first thing he did after reaching Theo’s car was calling Melissa. His hands shook so bad, he needed three attempts to find her contact. Theo didn’t help him, didn’t even look at him. But he listened, Stiles knows he listened to every single word. He noticed the satisfied smirk when Stiles hung up on her when she begged to tell him where he was, when she begged to wait for Scott before he did something rash. Scott couldn’t help him right now. Nobody could. After the call ended, silence wrapped around them, so much heavier and much more disconcerting than the one between them when they’d dragged Josh’s body down the hospital’s fire escape. Theo didn’t have any conceited comments, didn’t point out the elephant in the room - he did have all the cards from the very beginning, he just needed Stiles to ask for his help; and like the desperate little kid he was, he threw Theo a bone. He should’ve known Theo wasn’t going to be satisfied with just that.

Exhausted, Stiles closed his eyes for a moment or two. Maybe more. At one point, they were driving, and when he opened his eyes again, Theo tossed a syringe filled with some weird green liquid onto the backseat. Stiles didn’t ask, and Theo didn’t offer an explanation. It’s almost like he completely forgot about Stiles’ existence. With his arm propped on the driver’s door, Theo kept his eyes on the dark road ahead of him. He had one goal, and he was ready to reach it. 

When they finally arrive at the end of the road leading into the preserve, Theo seems to remember that he isn’t alone. Before Stiles is fully out of the car, Theo grabs him again; digits digging uncomfortably hard into his upper arm. The truck locks with two beeps cutting through the stillness of the woods. “Let’s take a walk,” Theo says dragging Stiles towards the darkness ahead of them. The trees swallow most of the moonlight. The car is the only light source Stiles has for now. Once they’re out of this illuminated bubble, Theo is his only way back home – once he found the nemeton, Stiles has to have proven himself useful enough that Theo won’t leave him out there to rot.

But he doesn’t even know in which direction to look much less where to go to.

“Focus on the nemeton,” Theo says in a low voice pulling him out of the light, and into almost complete darkness. “The sooner you find it, the sooner you can go back to your dad.” He yanks him to a stop, grip tightening painfully, and they both stare into the vast dark woods they are about to get lost in. Because that’s bound to happen. Because Stiles has absolutely no clue where to start looking or what to do to find it. He’s been searching the woods with Lydia. They’ve checked every intersection, walked the path of the telluric currents over and over and over again. There’s no way, he will find it now. Much less in the dark when every tree looks the same. 

He’s going to fail, and he’s going to get his dad killed. 

_No._

No, he won’t. He can’t let it happen. His father and he will walk away from this alive. Not unscathed, not unharmed, but alive. That’s all that matter right now.

Stiles closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, trying to settle his nerves. Everything is going to be fine because he will find this fucking magical tree stump; even if it’s the last thing he does. There’s no need to be afraid of it any longer. Theo knows about Donovan. Stiles doesn’t have to be worried about something being uncovered that could further ruin his life. He found it to save his dad once, he will find it again - wants to find it again. 

_Please_.

Someone whispers his name.

Stiles opens his eyes. There’s no one else here, no one who would know his real name. Cold dread pools in his stomach. If there’s nobody else here, who- the leaves on the forest floor rustle without any wind. Stiles can’t see anything. It’s too dark. Is it an animal? Possible. “Do you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Theo asks with a note of impatience in his tone.

Another rustle further up ahead. Someone says his name again. If Theo doesn’t hear it- Stiles swallows. A faint humming in the distance sets his teeth on edge. “Come on.” He can’t hesitate. Not now. Not with his dad’s life at stake. 

Theo’s grip around his arm tightens, almost as if he’s worried, he could lose him in the preserve when it’s the other way around. Stiles can’t sniff him out – he can’t bank on the nemeton’s help to lead him back home. Yet he walks, and he keeps walking. He’ll walk until he can see the tree stump that’s constantly messing everything up; the tree stump that couldn’t keep the nogitsune in, that saved the Darach, that lured the Dread Doctors back to Beacon Hills, keeps _bringing_ other supernatural creatures to this town ever since they kickstarted its power. Maybe he should’ve brought matches. Maybe burning it down would rid this town of all evil. 

It won’t burn. 

It doesn’t matter anyway. 

As long as he follows the humming, Stiles is going to end up finding the nemeton. 

Twice Theo yanked him back and closer to him. His silence makes it impossible to relax, to figure out what he’s thinking. Stiles doesn’t even know why he’s leading him to the nemeton in the first place – or what Theo’s going to do with the green liquid. If he’s about to poison this fucking tree stump, Stiles will be the last person who stops him from doing so. In fact, he’ll get out of his way to make it easier for him. But what if it’s something else? What if it helps extract power from the nemeton? What if it makes Theo as powerful as the Darach? He didn’t get Scott’s alpha spark. This could be his plan b.

And Stiles would be the one who has helped him.

Four times, Theo stopped him from falling on his face because of the uneven forest floor and godforsaken tree roots. Every single time, Stiles was about a hundred percent that he would let him fall eventually. He never did, never said anything about it either. Instead, Theo quickened his step. Or maybe Stiles did. He isn’t sure. Everything draws him in a single direction. With every step, the humming becomes louder and louder. Stiles can’t hear anything but this strange tune, can’t feel anything else but this _sensation_ ; this- this electricity. The currents. He’s feeling the _currents._

A moonlit clearing appears in front of them. For a second, Stiles wonders if it’s there or if he made it appear. That’s what happened in the dream. He took a step back, wanting to find the nemeton, and suddenly it appeared out of nowhere. The trees spread in front of them as if they try to lead them toward the nemeton. A straight path, then a large circle of trees surrounding-

Stiles stops dead in his tracks.

 _Donovan_.

Theo’s hand slips from his arm. He keeps walking while Stiles remains frozen.

 _Donovan_.

He can’t see his body from this distance, can barely make out any of the teenagers surrounding the nemeton. _They’re corpses_ , he remembers, and his legs give out. _Corpses_. They’re all dead. Hayden and Tracy and Corey and… Josh. Donovan. They’re dead. Two are dead because of him. Stiles slams into a tree in his search for something to lean onto. The pain is a dull ache somewhere in the back of his mind. The pull remains too prominent and he struggles not to give in. He doesn’t want to get closer. He doesn’t want to see him. His body. His victim. He can’t.

“Watch this, Stiles.” Theo’s voice sounds distant in comparison to the static rushing in his ears. But he watches him regardless, watches as he steps over the legs of what seems to be a girl and bends over her.

Stiles steps away from the tree, tries to ignore his rubber legs and the nausea pooling in the pit of his stomach. He needs to get closer. He needs to _see_.

Theo pushes the syringe into one of the bodies and pumps the green liquid into the chest. Is that why he wanted to find the nemeton? To do- to make his own experiments? No. No. _No_. Why are they here? Stiles shouldn’t have led Theo here; he shouldn’t have brought him here without being a hundred percent sure about his intentions. But what other option was there? Even if he had found a way around this, he would’ve gambled with his father’s life.

This was his only option, the only chance to save his dad.

“What-“ but Stiles’ voice cracks, and he can’t get the question out. What is happening? What is he doing? What is-

The girl comes to with a sudden, audible intake of breath. Her chest raises, head bent backwards, mouth wide open. That’s impossible. It should be impossible. He hears the girl grunt like she’s in pain, can make out the scales on her face from where he stands. _Tracy_. That’s Tracy. Where’s Hayden? Stiles moves closer. Save Hayden. _Save Hayden_. But his mouth doesn’t work, and Theo buries the syringe in the chest of a boy. He sucks in air as well, his body flinching when life flows back into it. Another boy. Stiles recognises him immediately. The leather jacket. The claws. The blood on his throat and jaw. _Josh_. He hears him take a breath too, sees how he moves his head towards the sky.

 _Save Hayden_.

Stiles makes another step towards the nemeton as Theo yanks a fourth body around. Long, dark hair. But he can’t see her face. The needle sinks deep into her chest and the last of the green liquid spreads through her veins. She coughs.

She’s alive.

They’re all alive.

Theo steps away, makes room for Stiles to see the fourth chimera. _Hayden_. Sudden relief washes over him; relief and strange fascination. The former corpses raise to their feet. Slowly. Struggling as they get their legs underneath them.

Theo saved them.

“Wha- what, what’s happening?” Hayden asks. Her eyes find Stiles’ and she’s staring at him for what feels like an eternity. There’s no recognition in her expression. Nothing. Does she know she’s been dead? Does she know what Theo did?

“Who are you?” Tracy’s stance is a lot securer. She almost seems ready to fight again.

Stiles shifts closer. If Theo undid the deaths of these four, if Theo undid Josh’s death – _Donovan_. He can resurrect Donovan too. He can- Stiles wouldn’t have to be a killer anymore. If Donovan was alive, they could mask his death as a disappearance. He was criminal about to be locked up. Of course, he would flee. Of course, he would try to get away.

“I’m your alpha.” Theo says calmly, and Stiles whips around to stare at him with wide eyes. _I came for a pack_. “And all of you-“ he points the syringe at each and every one of them; the empty syringe. _Empty_. Stiles needs to get his hands on that green liquid. He needs to save Donovan, give him back his life, give him back what he took from him. If he saved him, Donovan wouldn’t go after his dad again. They could make a deal. They could-

Where is his _body_?

“All of you belong to me.” Theo turns around with fierce determination on his face. He got what he came to Beacon Hills for, even if it’s not his first choice. He crowned himself alpha. The alpha of a pack of formerly dead chimeras – one that follows him in spite of his words, in spite of not knowing him. They follow him like little ducklings follow whoever they see first after hatching.

Stiles, however, walks in the complete opposite direction. The nemeton. He can’t walk away without seeing Donovan- without getting to the nemeton. He needs to- his steps become steadier the closer he gets to the tree stump. The prickle of electricity becomes more prominent in his veins. Blood rushes in his ears, makes it almost impossible to hear his own thoughts. Everything that’s not the nemeton drowns in white noise. He’s back in his dream. Back walking the hallways of his high school; and just like it did in his dream, the unrelenting desire to touch overcomes him.

“What are you doing?”

Wood cracks. Works. Moves. Shifts. The prickle turns into pins and needles.

“Stiles.”

He bends over the nemeton, reaches for it. His fingertips itch with the desire to touch.

“Stiles!”

Roots shoot out of the nemeton’s surface. They curl around his hand like snakes. Hot pain shoots up his hand, and he screams, tries to free himself. _This isn’t a dream_. Reality comes crushing back. The roots tighten their hold on him, threatening to crumble the bones in his right hand. This isn’t a dream. This is real. This is happening to him.

And it hurts.

It hurts _so bad_.

Someone wraps an arm around his chest. Hayden grabs the roots and tears at them. The pain gets worse. If it _is_ pain. Stiles can’t tell. His whole body feels as if it is on fire. His heart hurts, beats too fast, too strong. His lungs burn, make it almost impossible to breath. What was he _thinking_? The pain becomes excruciating. Every single bone in his body seems to be snapping in two at the same time. His throat hurts as if he swallowed burning embers. Is he still screaming? He might be. Could be.

He wants it to end. He needs it to end.

His chest tightens, heart still racing at an impossible rate. The forest floor turns soft, muddy, impossible to stay on. His knees buckle with a new onslaught of nausea. He’s going to throw up. His vision blurs, and he blinks, presses against the body behind him, tries to keep himself from falling over. The white noise becomes a high-pitched ringing in his ears, makes the pain impossibly worse; until, without a warning, the world falls silent.

Stiles jolts upright. The moon has vanished behind clouds, took with it the pain and everything else. Everything but Theo, who crouches next to him, his face partially hidden in shadows. But he sees his yellow eyes burn down on him, sees his lips curl in amusement. 

“Full of surprises, aren’t we, Stiles?” Before he can make sense of anything that happened, Theo grabs him by the hoodie and hauls him to his feet. “I believe our little deal is far from over, don’t you?”


	2. blackmail

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy cow, thank you all so much for your kind words and the kudos and everything! It means the world! <3
> 
> I wanted to update this earlier but the heatwave made it impossible for me to concentrate. I was editing this chapter for like eight hours today, and I'm still not sure I caught everything. 
> 
> Anyway, thanks again (<3 <3 <3) and off you go to the next one!

“Theo?” Josh says ignoring the ‘psst! _’_ of one of the other chimeras. “Tracy’s leaking.”

Stiles whips his head around to find Tracy inspect the venom dripping from her claws. She looks at it like she’s never seen it before. Maybe she doesn’t even remember that everything happening to her wasn’t actually a dream but the harsh reality. She hopefully stays far away from him as well because Stiles has been in contact with enough kanima venom to last him a lifetime. Although, admittedly, he is glad that it’s nothing more kanima venom. It means she's fine, that she's alive, that it worked.

If Stiles got his hands on that green stuff, he could revive Donovan – he could undo what he’s done.

Josh scrunches up his nose, seemingly unable to figure out if he finds Tracy’s little fluid problem interesting or disgusting. Hayden makes her opinion abundantly clear as she tries her best to scoot away from Tracy and ends up bumping into nothing.

“Corey,” Stiles says to the empty space between Hayden and the car door, “you’re invisible again.” His sandpapery throat makes it hard to talk, even when he’s speaking barely louder than a whisper.

“Oh.” Corey reappears rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry. I wasn’t aware-"

“You need to get your shit under control until Monday,” Theo interrupts him without as much as looking in the rear-view mirror, without a modicum of empathy. These kids just came back to life, they don’t have any concept of what it means to be supernatural. They don’t even know _what_ they are, much less how they’re supposed to get it under control.

Shaking his head, Stiles turns back around and slumps deeper into his seat. “They can’t do it alone.”

“They can and they will.”

“You have to help them.” This town has enough supernatural problems already, four traumatised chimeras unable to control their powers really isn’t what they need on top of the Dread Doctors, whatever Parrish is and the thing that destroyed part of the high school. Stiles has no idea how they want to solve the problem with the pack in its current state – Liam, who tried to kill Scott because of the supermoon, Malia, who doesn’t talk to anyone, Lydia, who just _vanished_ , Scott, who kicked Stiles out of the pack. If they don’t get their shit together, Beacon Hills is in big trouble.

But maybe Stiles doesn’t want to get his shit together. Maybe he only wants to go to his dad, wait until he’s well enough to go home and then leave the town and never even look back. He wouldn’t mind starting over new somewhere far away from this hellhole.

Theo’s grip tightens around the steering wheel. “And you think I have time for that?”

“Make time,” Stiles snaps, regretting this decision instantly. For the first time he wishes someone could use their werewolf mojo on him. His throat hurts like hell. _Fuck_. He’s going to lose his voice on top of his battered hand, isn’t he? His dad’s going to have a fit the second he wakes up and sees him like this. He knows the nemeton is bad news. What was he _thinking_? He can’t believe he touched that stupid tree. They all know it’s the root of all evil, and yet- and _yet_. The consequences of that are going to be huge and nasty and it'll be a miracle if it doesn't kill him. 

The car speeds up noticeably. “I don’t think you’re in the position to talk to me like that,” Theo tells him shifting up a gear.

Stiles scoffs. “Screw you, Theo. We're done here.”

“We’re far from done.”

“I did what you wanted me to do,” Stiles says curling his hands into fists ignoring the throbbing pain in his left one. “We are _done_.”

The acceleration pushes them into their seats. Despite six teenagers inside a single car, the only sound is the engine growling for a few very long moments. Theo’s knuckles turn white around the steering wheel during that silence. Stiles heartbeat picks up as well; more because of anger than fear. Their deal is over. Theo helped his dad, Stiles helped him find the nemeton and _that’s it_. There will be nothing more, nothing new, no more fucking terms. Whatever happened with the nemeton happened; the consequences don’t concern Theo.

“Stop the car.”

Someone whispers in the backseat. Theo reaches for the radio clearly ignoring him.

Stiles slaps his hand away. “I said, stop the car.”

“I will drop you off at the hospital.”

“I don’t want you to take me anywhere. I want you to stop the fucking car _right now_.” He doesn’t give a shit about having to walk thirty minutes to get to the hospital. He doesn’t give a shit that he’s so exhausted he could fall asleep at any moment. All he wants is to get out of this car and away from Theo and a chance to take a goddamn breath – or scream. Screaming would be amazing too because there’s one stuck just beneath his jaw, and he’s afraid that once he starts, he won’t be able to stop. At this point, however, it’s probably best to just let it out; wrecked voice or not.

The car slows so abruptly, Stiles whips forward. For a terrifying moment, it seems as if he’ll crash right through the windscreen despite the seatbelt.

“Out,” Theo snaps the second the truck has come to a full stop and grabs a fistful of Stiles’ hoodie. _Great_. “I said _out_.”

The four chimeras almost stumble over themselves in their haste to follow the command. When the door slams shut and they are alone again, the car feels too small, too tight, as if they took all the space with them and left nothing behind but used air and claustrophobia. Stiles notices Theo’s fingers tighten one by one. Closing his eyes, he takes a deep breath then turns his head to face the music.

Theo yanks him closer still. “I’m going to lay this out for you, and it’s going to be really simple: I will drop you off at the hospital. You won’t tell anybody about what happened in the woods. When I call you, you are going to be available.” Another yank. Stiles winces, grinds his teeth, and Theo places his mouth right next to his ear. “Otherwise I will have to pay the sheriff a visit.” Stiles can hear the smirk before he sees it as Theo moves back to look him straight in the eye. He lets go of Stiles’ hoodie, smooths out the fabric instead. “Your dad was always kind to me.”

“I get it.” Stiles shoves Theo’s hand away and sinks back into his seat. They’ve been here before. He knows what being blackmailed by Theo feels like. The only difference is that Theo is even less subtle about it now than he used to be.

There’s a dangerous glint in the blue eyes looking back at him. “I knew we would find common ground.”

Stiles swallows his anger and frustration, sinks deeper in the passenger’s seat and decides that the world can go fuck itself. Theo especially. Stiles glares out the window, only partially registering that the four chimeras squeeze onto the backseat again. Previously dead chimeras. If he focused on that, the whole thing doesn’t seem so dire anymore. They are alive because of him. They are alive because Stiles led Theo to the nemeton. His gaze drops to his hand.

“You should get that checked out,” Theo informs him casually.

 _No, shit_. He doesn’t need sparkly eyes to see the forming bruises on his hand; angry red skin hot to the touch where the roots wrapped around it; scraped knuckles from his attempt to free himself. His dad’s going to ask questions, and he will have to lie. Again. But that’s a price Stiles is willing to pay to keep him safe. And what’s done is done. He can scream and cry about it now, it doesn’t change the past one bit.

Frowning, he flexes his fingers one more time, then turns to the window and watches the trees turn into the night sky. 

Melissa and Jordan catch him before he can enter the elevator. A new hand returns for a familiar grip on his tender upper arm – Theo must’ve grabbed him harder than he thought – and he’s turned around. The world spins oddly with him. The elevator’s _ding_ is muffled by a pillow. It takes him a couple seconds to focus on who’s talking and what the fuck is even happening to him.

“Where have you been?” Jordan asks pushing him towards the chairs.

Melissa follows suit, crouching in front of Stiles before he even sat down. “What happened to your hand?”

He made a plan in the car because he expected an interrogation after hanging up on Melissa and then proceeding to not answer his phone. He doesn’t even know how many times she called him since he dropped his phone in the- _fuck_. The sudden surge of panic clears his head. _His phone_. Despite knowing better, Stiles scans his pockets. Great. Fantastic. He totally forgot to take his phone out of the glovebox. Of _course_. Why should one good thing happen to him today? Why should anything good happen to him _at all_?

Hopefully, Theo will find it or he's going to lose his shit.

With a quiet groan, Stiles presses his uninjured hand to his face. “How’s Dad?”

“Your dad is going to be okay.”

His lips curl into a bitter line. _‘That’s what you said last time_.’ The words don’t come, and maybe it’s better that way.

Jordan sits down next to him, making enough room for Melissa to inspect Stiles’ other hand. “What happened?” He asks squeezing his shoulder. “How did you know what’s wrong with the sheriff?”

 _I’m going to lay this out for you, and it’s going to be really simple: I will drop you off at the hospital. You won’t tell anybody about what happened in the woods. When I call you, you are going to be available. Otherwise I will have to pay the sheriff a visit._ What happened in the woods. What happened _in the woods_. That means, he’s allowed to talk about the rest. Why shouldn’t he be? Scott knows about it. He’s heard it. He tried to tell him not to do it. But Stiles did it. And his dad is okay. “Theo,” Stiles mumbles wincing as Melissa’s grip around his hand tightened for the fraction of a second. “He could smell the bone marrow.”

“So, he came to you.” Jordan sounds strangely matter-of-fact, methodical almost; a deputy trying to make sense of everything he’s told.

The last thing Stiles needs is people trying to pick holes into a story he hasn’t even finished yet. “I want to see my dad.” He keeps his voice low to minimize the chance of anyone picking up that he’s screamed his throat raw.

Melissa covers his hand with both of hers. Her skin feels ice-cold in comparison to his own. “Scott said Theo wanted you to find the nemeton.”

“Did you find it?”

“I want to see my dad,” he repeats quietly, without heat. Stiles is too tired to talk to them, too exhausted for any kind of discussion. All he wants is to see his dad, to crawl into bed next to him like he used to do shortly after his mother’s death. It’s selfish, he knows, but fuck, he needs his father more than ever. It’s the only person he has left. The only person he hasn’t managed to push away. _Yet._ Things will change when his dad learns the truth about Donovan. About what he did. And that he lied to him about it.

Stiles shifts his hand over his eyes and squeezes them shut in a desperate attempt to keep the tears away. But he can’t. It’s too late, and he doesn’t even really care. With the first tear falls his shame, with the next his resistance as Jordan pulls him into an awkward half-hug, and with the following ones his anger at himself, the surgeons and the rest of the world. The sob burns his throat, and his hand throbs as he curls it into the fabric of Jordan’s shirt. Part of him is aware that it’s not his father, yet the uniform helps to keep the illusion. The uniform reminds him of safety, of home, of family – and that’s all he needs for now.

Jordan lives in a surprisingly large flat on the edge of Beacon Hills. It has a nice bathroom with a shower and a bathtub, a modern kitchenette in the living-kitchen area and a bedroom with the most comfortable bed Stiles has ever had the chance to sleep in. The bedroom is also messy as hell - just like the rest of the flat. If Stiles hadn’t known before that Jordan is married to his work – and most likely not in the right mindset to date after finding out that he’s something supernatural carrying dead chimeras to a magic tree stump – he would’ve learned it right now.

“There’s no food in the fridge!” He slams the door shut on the offending emptiness and huffs out a breath. The whole kitchenette is so aggressively void of food, it’s a little disconcerting. The whole apartment screams single hard enough for Stiles to feel as if he’s gone to a second break-up within the span of a couple days.

Vaguely annoyed and dripping from the shower, Jordan enters the kitchen in his sweatpants towelling down his hair. “There _is_ food in the fridge.”

Stiles hops on the dining table propping his feet on the chair in front of him. “Well, if you’re talking about the two bananas in there, I’m sorry to inform you that they are so brown, they’re basically a fifth grader’s experiment in Darwinism.” Perhaps he should’ve expected nothing else seeing the avalanche of takeout boxes decorating the coffee and dining table as well as the kitchen counters. He gets it. Supernatural metabolism doesn’t exactly require a healthy diet but this is excessive.

“That’s not-“ Jordan tosses the towel across the room stalking towards the fridge, about ready to prove to Stiles and everyone else who doubts him that he is totally capable of going grocery shopping before he has starving levels of food at home. He yanks the fridge open and then stares into glaring emptiness for a solid minute. Someone has a hard time to accept that he’s not capable of adulting on their own, it seems. “I could’ve sworn I went grocery shopping.”

Stiles quirks his brows as the fridge door is pushed shut very quietly. Both bananas are duly ignored and will most definitively be disposed of when he isn’t around. “When, JJ? Three weeks ago?”

The lack of reaction is very telling about the level of embarrassment Jordan suffers from. “How does pizza sound?”

“I want extra cheese.”

“You get extra cheese if you tell me what happened to your hand,” Jordan says leaning against the fridge, “and your voice for that matter.”

Stiles squints at him, then his cleaned and freshly bandaged knuckles. His attempt to wave it off as hurting himself while falling on his face was listless, he’s aware of that. The marks around his hand don’t indicate clumsiness. Anybody with half a brain would be able to figure that out. It doesn’t look like roots either. In fact, it looks as if an idiot put restraints around his hand instead of his wrist. _You won’t tell anyone about what happened in the woods._ “You’re around my dad entirely too much.”

Jordan pushes himself off the fridge. “If Theo did something-“

“Theo helped my dad, and he didn’t do anything to me. He wouldn’t.” Stiles glances at Jordan, notices his unconvinced expression almost immediately, and adds, “I know how that sounds but _trust_ me on this.” He used to be sure about Theo’s intentions but the fallout in front of Scott’s house blurred the lines. Maybe he’s clawing his fingers into what he used to know. Maybe he simply refused to let go of the past. Maybe he was naïve but if he stopped trusting his instincts, he could throw in the towel right now. With a frown, wondering why he’s even trying to explain himself, Stiles watches Jordan sit down on the table next to him.

He could sense Jordan’s reply before it’s out in the open, “he killed Scott.”

Stiles gnashes his teeth and rubs small circles on his skin right where the bandage ends. “He told me everything. Theo wants me-“ his mouth snaps shut and he widens his eyes, almost embarrassed by how it sounds- “us,” he corrects hastily, pressing his thumb against his pulse point, “Lydia, Malia, Kira and me. Scott was never supposed to survive the supermoon. Theo wanted Liam to kill Scott, so he could kill Liam and become alpha.”

Jordan sighs. “He knocked Lydia out in the library and locked her and Malia up.”

“What?” Stiles whips his head around, a surge of irritation crawling up his spine. “Is she okay?” _She_. The word rings in his ears. Is _she_ okay? Guilt claws at the inside of his skin, and he has to look away to catch his breath.

“Lydia is fine,” Jordan says squeezing his shoulder encouragingly. “But what makes you different?”

Stiles swallows around the bile rising in his throat. “I don’t know.” He didn’t know Lydia’s been attacked. He didn’t know Theo locked Malia up. He thought it’s just Scott. _Just Scott_. Stiles squeezes his eyes shut, takes another deep breath. Freaking out is the last thing he needs right now. “I don’t know,” he whispers propping his elbows onto his thighs and covers his face with his hands. “I’m fucking tired.”

Silence falls between them, not as heavy as the one between Theo and him but strangely awkward. Jordan squeezes his neck this time, thumb brushing over his skin. In spite of himself, Stiles leans against him again, craving the kind of protection his dad could give him with a hug. Part of him knows he’s going to lose all of that once the world knows he killed Donovan and hid it, once the world knows he’s a murderer.

“It’s gonna be okay.”

Stiles runs his fingers through his hair, curls his hands into fists. “Sure… isn’t it always?” Even without seeing it, Stiles can tell that his smile doesn’t look right because it feels so terribly wrong. Everything feels wrong ever since Donovan died because of him. Everything feels wrong ever since he’s lost part of his soul, his heart, himself when Donovan lost his life. He is about to lose so much more.

And he can’t say how much he can lose before there’s nothing left.

Stiles stares at his father, unsure if he’s dreaming or already awake for multiple dreadfully long seconds. His exhaustion makes it hard to separate dream from reality. Despite the comfortable bed, he’s barely gotten any sleep. He was tossing and turning, waking up from even the faintest noise – and there are a lot of noises in an apartment building. More than he would’ve expected. His father tightens his grip around his upper arm to a gentle squeeze, and the resulting tenderness reminds him that Theo did drag him into and back out of the woods and that nothing that happened yesterday was a dream or a figment of his imagination. Theo helped to save his dad. He helped him to find the nemeton. Hayden, Josh, Corey and Tracy are all alive again.

They’re alive.

But so is his dad.

“It’s okay, Stiles.” Hearing his voice is balm for his soul. Every single muscle in his body relaxes all at once. “You still got me.”

Unable to nod, unable to say anything, Stiles grabs his hand, mindful of the patch and tubes, and just holds onto him. This is all he can do right now. It’s all he needs. He places his other arm over his thighs and out of his dad’s view. Although his bones are all intact, the nemeton did quite the number on his hand. The bruises are prominent against his skin, and his knuckles hurt like a bitch. Jordan scrunched up his face when he inspected it half an hour ago. It’s nothing his dad has to be concerned about right now. He doesn’t want him to worry; all Stiles wants is to crawl into bed next to him, be tugged in, feel safe next to his dad. He has the terrible hunch that it’s a feeling which won’t leave him alone anytime soon. But he can’t act on it, won’t act on it. He’s almost eighteen. He’s not the one who’s hurt. He’s the one who killed. His chest constricts, and he takes a deep breath. Or tries to. It’s not that easy with his throat closing up.

They’ve been _right_ there. Theo could’ve undone what Stiles did to Donovan. But he chose Josh and Hayden and Tracy and Corey; he chose Liam’s girlfriend and Mason’s crush; he chose a boy immune to Kira and a girl able to knock them all out with the swipe of her claws. He chose damaged goods, people he could get under control. Donovan would have been a loose cannon. Donovan would’ve made things complicated. And Theo doesn’t like complicated.

Stiles rubs his cheek against his shoulder, squeezes his eyes shut while taking a deep steadying breath. “Dad,” he says – _I killed someone_ – and swallows heavily. His throat feels like someone mangled it with sandpaper made out of embers, and he tries to speak low enough that his father doesn’t notice anything odd about his voice. “How are you feeling? Do you need anything?”

“I need to know you’re with Jordan while I’m here,” his dad replies, eyes already closing again.

“With Jordan?” Stiles perks up furrowing his brows. He gets that Parrish didn’t want him to be alone last night, but now with his dad on his way to get better, it’s fine. More or less. He’ll be at the hospital whenever he isn’t at school anyway. “I can stay home alone, Dad.”

“No.” The word ends the discussion without any chance of continuation. “You’re going to pack a few things, and you’re going to stay with him until I’m out of the hospital.”

 _What_? Stiles straightens and stares at his dad, trying to make any sense of this conversation. They had a similar one ages ago; one Stiles attempted to avoid until his father threatened to lock him into his bedroom and explain everything to him through the door unless he would sit down and listen. Stiles didn’t sit but he listened – and he hated every word coming out of his father’s mouth. When his dad got elected sheriff, he made the decision that Stiles should be assigned a guardian in case he would be killed or severely hurt on the job before Stiles turned eighteen. With his grandparents away in Poland and in a retirement home suffering from dementia, they agreed on Melissa. It made a lot of sense back then, and she agreed to do it without any doubts or second-guessing.

When did it become Parrish?

“Let me get this straight,” Stiles says trying to get his thoughts together, “you want me to live with the supernatural nutjob? The one we don’t know what he actually is?” For a night, that’s all fine and dandy, but living with Jordan for multiple days in a row? That doesn’t only seem unnecessary, it also seems dangerous. “I mean, do I have to remind you what happened at the morgue? Or that he flipped over my jeep?”

His dad works his jaw for a moment, but he doesn’t bother to open his eyes. So, he’s clearly too exhausted to be annoyed, yet not tired enough to simply avoid having a discussion with him. That’s a good sign. If his dad is in shape to bend Stiles to his will, he can most definitively go home and rest without having to worry too much about him. That doesn’t change the fact that he’d rather stay with his dad. Knowing that he is fine doesn’t mean Stiles won’t become a paranoid mess about something happening while he is away; especially considering Theo’s fucking parting words.

Stiles doesn’t enjoy the assholes' new terms. Not even a little bit. They’re bound to bite him in the ass. This is going to end in one gigantic disaster, he can tell, but there isn’t really a lot that he can do about it. For all he knows, the nemeton tried to fucking murder him – or at the very least tear off his hand. And who is he going to tell about it anyway? Scott thinks he’s a murderer. Malia doesn’t talk to him any longer. Liam is most definitively too afraid to pick up the phone. He doesn’t know Mason well enough to go to him for help. Kira is gone, and Lydia, well, just thinking about talking to her makes his chest constrict. He really doesn’t want to figure out how she sees him after learning that he killed Donovan. Knowing Scott, he has already told her. 

“I know it seems unusual-“

“That’s one way to describe it.”

“ _But_ ,” his dad continues shooting him an exasperated look, “I trust he will protect you.”

 _Unless he has to carry a dead chimera to the nemeton._ And did he miss the part in which Parrish flipped over his jeep? Stiles rubs the nape of his neck and sighs. “How do you know that? He’s not in control. He-“

“When we were in the morgue.” His father’s eyes are closing again, and Stiles squeezes his hand furrowing his brows. Although he has a lot to say about this mess, he decides to let his dad continue without any interruption, “he didn’t attack me.” Briefly, he shakes his head, almost as if to sort out his thoughts. “Whatever he is or whatever possesses him, he recognised me and you. It almost seemed like he cares enough about us to avoid an attack.” That doesn’t mean anything, but Stiles gets the distinct feeling that he’s not going to change the outcome of this discussion no matter what he’ll say.

Stiles swallows. “We can talk about this when you’re feeling better.”

“It’s already discussed.” _Of course, it is_. “Kiddo.” His dad takes a deep breath and looks at him with a small and tired and all too disarming parental smile. His mother had a smile like that too; the one that makes the world a better place and kills every disagreement – in her favour naturally. It’s every _I love you, I’m proud of you, I don’t want you hurt_ wrapped up in a single curl of lips. Parents shouldn’t be allowed to do that. How is Stiles supposed to continue arguing? It’s so unfair. He hates when his father plays this card. He hated it back when he hid Derek in his room, and he still hates it now.

“You really want me to live with Jordan?” Stiles admits defeat. His father needs rest, _he_ needs rest – and Parrish isn’t going to do anything to him as long as he doesn’t stand in his way.

His dad nods without opening his eyes again. “I will be here for a while, and I need to know you are cared for. This town isn’t safe.” As if this town has been safe in the last seventeen years. Nowhere is safe. Not at home, not at school – maybe not even at Parrish’s. And it’s not like Stiles can’t fend for himself. He probably should remind his dad who cooks, washes his uniform and goes grocery shopping seventy percent of the time. His mother’s sickness as well as his dad’s job forced him to become independent at a young age. If that hadn’t been the case, his father could’ve lost custody back when he’d used to drink. But he’s almost eighteen now, everything is different. He doesn’t need a babysitter anymore. “Kiddo,” his dad pleads squeezing his hand, “ _please_.”

 _Wow, rude_.

Stiles squeezes his hand one more time before he lets go. “Okay.”


	3. confession

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're all so sweet. Seriously. From the bottom of my heart, thank you so, so much! <3

“I want you to train me.”

Jordan cranes his neck. With only the TV flickering in the dark living room, his face appears pale and vaguely otherworldly. A look that causes Stiles to keep his distance and fold his arms tightly over his chest while Jordan is sitting up. “Train you?” He asks, yawn audible in his voice.

“Yeah.” Stiles runs a hand over his upper arm, fingers carefully testing the tender skin around his bicep. “I wanna learn how to fight.”

Jordan rubs the corners of his eyes with a sigh. “And knowing how to fight helps you to what extent against werewolves?”

“You taught Lydia too.”

“Because she's a banshee,” Jordan remarks scrunching his bedding together to make room on the couch.

Although he doesn’t indicate anything else, Stiles has the distinct feeling that he’s supposed to sit down for a talk or something – or maybe he’s just too used to his father doing the same thing that the lines are blurring. No matter the answer, Stiles walks over to him and flops onto the convertible couch, crossing his legs and propping his arms on his thighs. For some reason, he feels like there’s a scolding about to happen but it’s not like Jordan has any right or reason to do that.

“What’s this really about?”

Stiles pulls his shoulders up and glares at the TV, watching as a dinosaur chases Jeff Goldblum in his fancy red car. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.”

Of course, he does, but when Stiles gets such a blatant chance to stall, he sure as fuck is going to use it. “I just think that I could do more, you know? If I’m able to fight back.” _What_ he’s going to do against someone with supernatural strength and skin made out of marble is an entirely different conversation. But he’d feel better if he knew that he could potentially do something in case of an emergency – even without his baseball bat; especially without his baseball bat.

Or a wrench.

Jordan pauses the movie. “Is there a certain situation that made you think you could’ve done more if you had been able to fight?”

 _Fucking_ police officers.

With a sigh, Stiles scoots back a little and pulls his legs to his chest. “No.” He crosses his arms over his knees, props his chin on them. The edge of the bandage tickles his skin. “Maybe,” Stiles admits after a second of hesitation. 

The bedding rustles when Jordan moves on the couch. He faces him now; Stiles can feel his gaze on his cheek. “What is this really about?”

It’s so hard to keep his irritation away. It’s so hard not to jump to his feet and lock himself into the bedroom until Jordan will have forgotten this conversation has ever happened. Instead, he remains seated, curls his hands into a fist and stays quiet. Part of him wants to talk about it, part of him wants to finally get the truth out in the open – rip off the band-aid. Waiting for someone to find out gives his mind the chance to wander, to come up with the worst possible outcomes for his situation. He’s been so close to confessing everything last night. If his dad had been in a better condition, he would’ve said it. But he couldn’t, not with his father barely awake after two surgeries.

“What happened to you, Stiles?” 

_What happened to you_ , not _what did you do_. Does it make a difference? Probably not. “You already know.” It’s not a question.

Jordan lets out a breath. “No,” he says after a beat of silence, “I don’t know. I made guesses.”

His muscles go rigid. “No wonder my dad likes you so much,” Stiles whispers unable to keep the bitterness out of his tone. For a moment, he stares at the roaring T-Rex, frozen in time wishing someone had the power to pause his life too, to give him a chance to rest and figure things out. “What happens now?”

The bedding rustles again, and the edge of the blanket whacks him in the face as Jordan gets to his feet. _He’s going to take the phone_. Stiles’ breath hitches in his throat. _He’s going to call the police._ But Jordan bypasses his phone on the dining table and reaches for two glasses in one of the cupboards instead. The last thing Stiles needs is fucking apple juice. But Jordan only opens the freezer compartment, drops ice cubes in both glasses and then walks away from the fridge to a cabinet closer to the TV. Stiles watches in amazement as Jordan pours just enough whiskey over the ice that it's covered. What the hell is happening?

With a sigh, Jordan places one glass in front of Stiles and sits down with his own in both hands. “You either drink it and we pretend it never happened, or you don’t drink it and we pretend it never happened.” He shrugs half-heartedly – clearly struggling knowing that he is actively breaking the law – and takes a sip himself. “Just tell me everything.” His expression is soft, genuine worry carving lines into his forehead.

Stiles’ mouth goes dry. Swallowing heavily, he rubs his eyes, then reaches for the glass of whiskey. His stance on alcohol is pretty strict. He doesn’t drink it often, doesn’t even have the desire to do so. Doesn't change the fact that he wanted to drink himself senseless for a while now. The memory of what it had done to his father stopped him every time. But now he doesn’t give a fuck. It’s fine. It’s _fine_. The alcohol burns his tongue and throat. The taste that follows makes him feel like he's just bitten into a piece of wood. Frowning, Stiles lowers his glass and gaze.

“Nothing will leave this room.”

“You say that now.”

“Look at me,” Jordan demands leaning forward, and Stiles does, fingers tight around the glass, jaw clenched. Without even blinking, he looks him straight in the eye. “Whatever you’re going to tell me, it will never leave these four walls. I won’t bring it up, I won’t tell anybody, I will listen. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

His soothing words, Stiles’ very own desperation and the alcohol in his hand helped to loosen his tongue. Perhaps it’s also the willingness to finally be honest about everything. The words have been painted on the inside of his mouth for a while now, ready to fall out – and Jordan, for some obscure reason, pushes the right button. He trusts him, trusts his words, trusts that this is going to stay between them as long as Stiles wants to. It doesn’t make any sense. But it doesn’t matter. He’ll go insane if he isn’t going to talk about it. So, he does. Quietly. Hastily. Every word needing less and less effort to tumble past his trembling lips. He starts at the beginning, his car, recites how he hits him with the wrench, how he runs and hides and fights and pulls that pin; that fucking pin.

When he’s done, Jordan drinks his whiskey – not a huge gulp, just another little sip – and contemplates him in silence.

Stiles places the glass against his bottom lip, lowers it, raises it again and puts it on the table only to start fidgeting with his bandage. “Say something,” he pleads in a whisper although he’s terrified of a reaction. Part of him wants to run, and he curls his fingers into the edge of the blanket to keep himself seated.

Jordan sips on his drink again, then places the glass on the table next to Stiles’. “Donovan tried to kill you, you tried to get away and he died in an accident.”

 _Accident_. Stiles swallows heavily. _The way that it happened_. His throat closes, and he shakes his head. “I killed him.”

“Stiles,” Jordan says leaning forward and grabs his upper arms, “Donovan died trying to kill _you_.”

“We can’t be killing people we’re trying to protect.”

Without warning, Jordan shakes him - once, twice - then cups his neck and forces him to look up. “He died trying to kill you,” he repeats in a firm, almost strict voice, sounding so much like his father, sounding so reasonable. The words knock something loose, create a tiny hole in the wall Stiles has built around his memory. _He died_. _Donovan died_. Not _you killed him_. That's a difference, right? It has to be.

Stiles lets go of the bedding and wraps his arms around his knees. “It doesn’t feel like self-defence.”

“It never does.” Jordan’s hands fall onto Stiles’ shoulders again. “I wish I could say anything that would make it easier for you but-“ A shadow crosses over his face, and for a heartbeat, he looks almost pained. _Right_ , Jordan used to be military. Jordan is only twenty-five. He's most definitively been exactly where Stiles is now. 

“There’s nothing.” The realisation is a bit disappointing, yet not particularly surprising. The words help regardless, even if they only took a bit of weight off his shoulders.

“No.” Frowning slightly, his eyes dark and somewhere far away, Jordan reaches for his drink again.

Stiles’ gaze wanders back to the TV, and he scowls at the roaring dinosaur. The shithead seems so very judgemental; granted, its child has been stolen but _still_. Can it please roar in the other direction? Can it _please_ go _fu-_ Is he seriously about to be pissed at a movie? He’s supposed to feel better, not- not _this_. Stiles looks back at Jordan, who sips his whiskey almost absentmindedly, and he reaches for his own glass mimicking the other and grimacing at the wooden taste on his tongue. The last time he’s gotten drunk, he was with Scott after he has been recently turned. Things were easier back then; not perfect but at least nobody had died yet.

And Scott didn’t hate him.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Stiles downs the rest of his drink in one go. The amount of whiskey barely does anything to him, and it is a great relief and an annoyance at the same time. His eyes dart back to the TV. “You gonna watch something after that?” 

_I_ _don't wanna be alone, please, let me stay._ Word he wants but won't be able to say.

“Wanna watch with me?”

Stiles glances at Jordan and down at his hands. “Sure.”

“No, there have not been any more bodies brought in tonight, thank God.”

Stiles’ step falters when he sees Liam walking towards the exit next to his seemingly exhausted stepfather. He stops dead in his tracks, gaze darting around the entry hall to find a way to avoid confrontation – Stiles doesn’t want to see Mason or Liam looking at him like he’s a mindless killer, and he’s pretty sure Liam doesn’t want to meet him after what happened during the night of the supermoon – but there’s really nowhere he could go. He can try to keep his head down and slip past. Good thing he wears a hoodie. 

With a last glance at the small group, Stiles pulls the hood over his head and stares at his feet. There's nothing he can do about his scent other than hope Liam is too distracted to notice it. 

“No one named Hayden?” Liam asks attention locked on his dad.

Why would he ask if Hayden was brought here? If she’s dead – which she isn’t anymore; something nobody should know about yet – then her body should be at the nemeton. Liam knows that. They all know that. Why- where is this question coming from? What happened that Liam believed Hayden ended up at the hospital? It doesn’t make any sense. None at all. Unless- unless he saw her or thinks he’s seen her and now is looking all over the place for a trace of her.

Stiles swallows his desire to chime in and starts walking again.

Dr. Geyer turns around, disregarding his son’s question altogether. “Mason, take him home.” Stiles notices the dad-tone sneaking into his order near the end of the sentence, “it’s six in the morning.”

“Dad, you’re sure there have been no other dead bodies?” Liam knows something, that’s for damn sure. His voice is so full of hope and desperation, it’s impossible that he's acting on nothing but a whim. He was there when she died. He was there when Jordan took her. He should know better.

“Both of you. Home. _Now_ ,” Dr. Geyer demands, then turns to walk away. His gaze drags over Stiles’ face, recognition obvious in his expression, but he doesn’t say anything, and Stiles is immensely thankful for that. The less attention he draws to himself, the easier he can get to his father, and that’s really all he wants even though his dad told him to spend his time otherwise, that he doesn’t have to stay with him the whole day. But since Stiles has to go to school tomorrow anyway, he’s decided to stay here today – at least until Jordan drags him home again; Jordan who knows everything now, Jordan who told him Donovan died, Jordan who makes him feel less terrible and didn't say anything about him falling asleep on the couch next to him.

Stiles doesn’t understand why he feels so safe around him, why his genuine concern makes him crack whereas his throat closed up whenever he thought about telling Scott or his father. But he'll tell his dad today. Jordan’s reaction gave him enough hope that it won’t end in a completely horrendous disaster ending in losing his dad forever. Maybe he’ll see things the exact same way as Jordan. Maybe he’ll see things at least a bit like Jordan. As long as he doesn’t look at him the same way Scott did, it’ll be fine.

“We’re not going home, are we?” Mason asks with an exasperated sigh.

“No.”

The corridor turns, and Stiles turns with it, breathing relieved when he’s out of sight and can’t hear the two boys’ conversation any longer. Liam, luckily, had his back to him the whole time, and both seemed far too distracted to take any notice of him. Even if they ignored him completely, Stiles wouldn’t mind seeing that he’s just done the same damn thing. He hasn’t been ready to face anybody since the fallout with Scott. Being confronted with Liam is even more horrifying after resurrecting Hayden and being prohibited to talk about it.

The elevator doors slide open, and Stiles freezes.

“Look who’s here,” Tracy drawls. The smirk curling around her lips doesn’t reach her eyes.

Theo, on the other hand, seems positively gleeful with his blue eyes sparkling and lips pulled back in a grin that reveals his perfect white teeth. “I was worried that I missed you,” he says stopping the doors from closing.

Stiles doesn’t need a written invitation. “What are you doing here?” He asks pulling the hood down.

Tracy pushes the buttons for one of the upper floors, and the elevator starts moving with a quiet rattle. Stiles doesn’t even attempt to push the one to his dad’s floor. Theo won’t let him, and the way Tracy turns and settles right in front of the buttons with crossed arms is very telling. She looks way too smug to still be traumatised about what happened. In fact, she seems as if nothing could trouble her in the slightest.

With a smile, Theo pulls a phone out of the back pocket of his jeans. _Stiles’ phone._ “I tried to call you yesterday,” he says stepping closer. “I wanted to check on you, you know, after what happened in the woods.”

Check up on him? Sure. He's probably worried Stiles would tell, worried that perhaps he feels brave enough to risk his dad's life, worried he’d murder Theo and make it look like a very tragic accident after that motherfucker screwed him over. If it’s the latter, Theo should indeed be worried. Because there will be a moment, in which he’s inattentive, that Stiles is going to use. “Can I have it back?” Stiles asks trying his hardest to keep his tone void of the anger bubbling up.

“I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt here,” Theo says placing the phone on his outstretched hand, “because I know how much you love your dad.”

The elevator dings when they arrive on the sevenths floor and the doors slide open to reveal a rather dark and empty hallway. Tracy steps out immediately, turning around to check if Theo is following. He doesn’t. He’s still looking at Stiles with this weird smile. It has something very off-putting about it; like Theo knows exactly that there’s a bomb dropping soon – and that Stiles won’t like it even a little bit.

“Can I go now?”

Theo shakes his head once. “I wanna show you something.”

That can’t be good. Pushing the phone in the pocket of his hoodie, Stiles follows dutifully. He hates every second of it and doesn’t return the grin Theo offers him. Instead, his expression matches Tracy’s; a deep scowl that’s not leaving any doubt about his lack of enthusiasm to be here. Nothing good can come out of this. Bad is just the default setting of every situation Theo is involved in. If this doesn’t end in someone getting hurt, murdered or viciously put in their place, Stiles will eat his own leg.

Tracy whips around, every firm step pronounced by a _clack_ of her heels.

Theo raises his brows. “After you.”

Shoving his hands into the pocket of his hoodie, mostly to hide his fists, Stiles stalks after Tracy. He’s not sure about this. Not at all. He doesn’t want to be here either. But if he doesn’t want to risk trouble or cause problems for his dad, he’ll have to get through whatever Theo has planned to show him – because Stiles is about a hundred percent sure that they didn’t run into each other on accident. Theo does nothing without purpose.

Tracy quietly pushes a door open and slips inside.

When Stiles’ step falters a little, he really does not have a good feeling about this – even less now that he knows it involves entering a stranger’s hospital room – Theo’s hand finds its place on the small of his back. It’s more a push than guidance and if he doesn’t want to be dragged along again, Stiles has to follow. Wetting his lips nervously, he slips through the door as well, always feeling Theo’s presence directly behind him although his hand has already vanished. The breath on his neck makes his skin crawl.

A heart-monitor speeds up noticeably, as does the sound of breathing through an oxygen mask. Stiles knows the sounds too well for them to not have any impact on him. Stiles doesn’t need supernatural senses to notice the panic either. Whoever is on the other side of this curtain really doesn’t like what they’re- Stiles stops again, lips rounding to a silent _oh_. Tracy’s dad. He’s in the hospital ever since she attacked the van.

 _I wanna show you something_.

The message couldn't be any clearer. 

Theo grabs his neck. “No, no,” he drawls, amusement dancing in his tone. “I wanna make sure you will _never_ forget your phone anywhere ever again.” Without further ado, he shoves Stiles forward and places him at the foot of the bed. He’s still smiling when he turns around and looks at Tracy. “Looks like he remembers you,” his voice is soft and smooth, and he sounds like he’s talking about a happy family reunion. Slowly, as if to drag it out, Theo reaches for the nurse call button and pulls it just out of reach.

Tracy doesn’t look away from her father, expression stony and unmoving in spite of his terror.

Stiles doesn’t look away either, worried Theo might be pissed about that.

Although he seems to be far too busy to wrap Tracy around his little finger. He steps close enough that his chest almost touches her upper arm. “I take care of it, if you want me to,” Theo continues in his _oh-so_ soft half-whisper. “All you have to do is ask.”

Tracy never breaks eye-contact. With her expression being an unwavering mask of nothing, he lets her father know what’s going to happen. “My dad defended someone on death row once.” She turns her head, eyes roaming Stiles’ face briefly. “I know how lethal injections work.” She turns further, looks up and at Theo directly for all but a second, lips parting. It almost seems like she wants to say something else. It almost seems like she wants something from Theo – not comfort, not reassurance, _approval_. She wants him to say ‘ _you’re good. That’s perfect. You’re perfect’_.

Theo doesn’t.

Stiles watches on as her dad struggles on the bed, his breathing loud and fast. He only looks away from the bed when his chest constricts and it's almost impossible for him to breathe. 

“One of the drugs they use,” Tracy explains reaching for the IV bag, “paralyses your diaphragm.” Both chimeras turn away from him as she injects kanima venom into the clear liquid. “Makes it impossible to breathe.” Simultaneously, they watch Tracy’s dad again – nobody noticing that Stiles’ slowly steps back and away from the bed. He doesn’t want to be part of this, even though he knows there’s nothing he can do about it now. Standing here, watching, saying nothing makes him a witness to a murder; nothing particularly shocking seeing that he already is an accessory as well as a perpetrator. At this point, it doesn’t fucking matter. The only thing that’s important to him is that he’s feeling horrible about what is happening right in front of him. He’ll swallow it just like he swallowed Josh’s death by pushing it as far away as possible.

But the terror remains.

Stiles pushes the beeping away and the panic of Tracy’s struggling father. He tries to pretend that maybe he’s a terrible man, that maybe he deserves it – that maybe, just maybe, this is a good thing. His eyes dart over to Tracy as she raises her chin, her expression proud, her eyes full of satisfaction.

Theo is practically beaming at her before he watches Mr. Stewart suffocate to death delightfully, and it hits Stiles. _That’s_ why he chose Tracy. Not because of her being a kanima, not because she can incapacitate everyone with a single swipe of her claws – he chose her because she’s like him, endlessly hateful, ready to kill and broken beyond repair.

At a moments notice and without any warning, Theo moves and grabs Stiles by the arm. His grip is strong enough to make him wince. The bruise on his upper arm is far from healed, and even more tender then it has been yesterday. Theo opens the door to the hospital room’s bathroom and shoves him inside.

As if on cue, Tracy starts yelling for help.

The door falls shut plunging them in complete darkness. Stiles’ foot catches on something and he stumbles, would’ve fallen if not for Theo. Chaos erupts on the other side of the door, loud and wild. People yelling over the deafening flatline and Tracy’s hysterical shrieks. She’s a great actress. Another thing she and Theo seem to have in common.

Stiles feels for a wall or something else to hold on to. “I can’t see.”

“You don’t have to.” Theo moves him until his back hits the wall. “That’s what I’m here for.” His mouth is somewhere close to his left cheek, breath hitting his jaw in a chuckle. He’s too close. Far too close. His body is solid in front of him. It’s like trying to shove away a fucking lorry with the handbrake applied. Stiles could as well be doing nothing, that’s how much Theo is bothered by his attempts to free himself. “I suppose,” Theo whispers and a flash of gold reveals how close he really stands – his eyes a blurry from proximity causing Stiles to press himself further against the cool tiles behind him, “my message is clear. If you lose your phone again, I’m going to be the last person on this earth who will give a damn about you,” Theo hisses, inching so close Stiles can feel his breath on his cheek. “Are we clear?”

The admission that Theo cares about him glues his mouth shut. Whatever _caring_ means in Theo’s world. His sister became an organ donor despite claiming that he cared about her, so, Stiles should probably take his words with a grain of salt. He juts his chin in the air knowing full well that Theo can see him in the darkness of the bathroom. “There will be a day,” he says in a low voice – nobody could potentially hear him over the ruckus in the other room – and narrows his eyes, “when I’m going to kick your ass for every little thing you’ve done to me.”

Theo doesn’t laugh. “You shouldn’t be giving me so much lip, Stiles.” His name rolls off Theo's tongue as if he’s an aggravating mystery the guy is too invested in to quit, yet should be solved little by little instead of all at once; a puzzle he’d like to piece together even though he can’t be sure if the end result is worth the trouble.

“If you want me to cooperate, you’ll better get used to it.” Stiles pushes off the wall, and to his astonishment, Theo lets him move. “I’m neither your beta nor your bitch. I play your little fucking game, but I’m not going to be nice about it.”

The hand returns. This time, Theo presses his fingers against his cheeks and presses his head against the cool tiles. “I thoroughly enjoy your company, I really do. But don’t _push_ me.”

Sure, he should probably lay low, bow down, make himself small, but he doesn’t. He can’t, couldn’t, never will. He didn’t kiss his ass when he was blackmailing him with Donovan’s death, he won’t now. Just because he’s playing by his rules, doesn’t mean he has to be nice about it. “Then don’t be such a fucking prick, how does that sound?”

“Utterly boring.” His voice drops ominously, making Stiles aware of the silence in the other room. Theo’s fingers vanish from his face as well and he steps away, taking warmth and the feeling of being imprisoned away.

Stiles rubs his forehead absentmindedly. “How long do we have to wait here?”

“Until they’re gone.”

“Kiddo?”

Stiles blinks and forces his attention away from the Psychology homework on his lap. “Yeah?”

“You’ve been staring at your paper for half an hour without writing anything,” his dad informs him not looking up from his breakfast – a cheese sandwich of questionable quality if his dad is to be trusted – and furrows his brows. “I haven’t seen you like this for a while.” _This_ meaning quiet and unmoving and excessively exhausted.

Closing his eyes, Stiles puts his homework aside. It’s now or never. He swallows, opens his eyes again unable to look away from his bandaged hand. “I have to tell you something.”

His dad puts his food away and tries to sit up further. A wince cuts through the silence of the room, and Stiles shoots him a look, his annoyance burying the anxiety. As if to indulge him, his dad settles back into the cushions. The smile is a little unnerving, then it falters, and a sigh falls from his lips.

Stiles struggles with wanting to go sit down next to his dad and wanting to disappear. But he’s come here with a purpose. He’s come here to confess to everything. Jordan said it would be okay. Jordan said that, if he understood then his father will too. Maybe he’s right. Actually, Stiles is pretty sure that Jordan is absolutely right, yet the tiny doubtful voice in the back of his mind remains; what if he _doesn’t_? What if his dad can’t look at him any longer? What if he tells him to report himself to the police and that it would be better if they don’t see each other anymore?

“The story Theo told me about the library,” his dad says in a soft, still a bit hoarse voice.

Stiles looks down and away, staring at his fingers fidgeting with the sleeve of his hoodie.

“That’s how it happened…” his father trails of, gaze palpable on the side of his face. There’s a quiet intake of breath, an almost sigh, before he says, “except that it didn’t happen to him.”

His blood turns to ice at these words. He knows. They _all_ know what he did, what he hid, everything that happened. Stiles wishes Jordan were here. A thought that comes out of nowhere, a thought that’s as childish and desperate as it could be. What would Jordan be able to do? If his father’s mind was made up, nothing could change it. That’s just how they Stilinskis are.

Licking his lips, Stiles glances at him for a single, dreadfully long heartbeat, then he nods, looks away and adds, “yeah.”

“Stiles-“ his dad doesn’t look away, his voice never changes. It's the soft, quiet almost whisper that makes Stiles feel like there’s nothing wrong. So, he looks up again, briefly locks eyes with his father. “I can’t protect you if I don’t know the truth.” _The truth_. The truth isn’t just Donovan dying. There’s so much more to it. The relief. The _good_. Scott. Stiles looks away, and his father looks at the thick blanket covering his legs. “Did you really feel like you couldn’t tell me?” Confusion slips into his tone. _Confusion_ , not irritation.

A flutter of hope curses through his chest. “I couldn’t tell anyone.”

“Did you think that I wouldn’t believe that it was self-defence?” More confusion. No anger. No disappointment. Just honest confusion.

Stiles decides to be honest as well. He looks back at his father. “What if it wasn’t?” He pauses, heart hammering against his chest. He has to take a deep breath to steady his voice as much as possible. “What if I told you I wanted him dead?” The cold remains but it feels less heavy now. The confession makes it a bit easier to breathe even though the lump in his throat remains.

“I’d believe you,” his father says and before the panic can even start, he continues, “I also believe that wanting someone dead and murdering them are two _very_ different things.”

“Yeah, but what if the judge didn’t think so?”

“Then to _hell_ with the judge!” The small, sudden burst of anger takes Stiles by surprise. Even in his current position, he understands that his dad isn’t angry with _him_ but rather with the prospect of someone believing that his own son is capable of killing someone. Maybe he should explain that to Scott, maybe he should- Stiles takes a breath as relief and realisation melt the ice in his veins and the lump in his throat. Breathing is getting easier. He swallows blinks against the burn in his eyes. His dad believes him. Like Jordan. He understands. He doesn’t hate him.

Stiles takes another breath, squeezes his eyes shut.

His dad pushes the table away from his bed, pats the mattress next to him. On autopilot, Stiles gets to his feet and crosses the room. “Kiddo, it was self-defence,” he continues placing a hand on his when Stiles starts to fidget with the blanket. “I would destroy every shred of evidence to protect you if I had to. I would _burn_ the whole sheriff’s station to the ground.”

The urge to hurl himself into his dad’s arms is almost impossible to ignore. Stiles shivers, swallows again. The lump in his throat yields relief but there’s still something else, a flicker of doubt. This is his father’s work they’re talking about. This is breaking the law – and his father _is_ the law. Helping him wiggle out of a speeding ticket is one thing, but this? This is different. Someone died whether it was self-defence or not. Someone died, and Stiles has kept it to himself for days.

He licks his lips and watches as his dad squeezes his hands almost encouragingly. “What about upholding the law? What about Kira?” Suddenly, talking to his father is easy again. Normal. _Right_.

“Kira was a mistake. I guess I’m learning how to bend.” His dad sounds like his words refer to an inside joke between him and somebody else.

Stiles squints for a moment, bites the inside of his cheek. He doesn’t want to wipe the crocked grin from his father’s lips, but he can’t help himself. Now, that he started talking, it’s suddenly impossible to stop. “So, what, it just goes away?” Part of him hopes this is true, another, much larger one knows the answer will be different.

“Not for you.” And he looks, as if he’s genuinely sorry about it, as if he wants to be the one to carry this horror on his shoulders. “The problem now is how to bear this burden.” Drawing from the experience of the last days, that seems to be impossible. “This kind of thing is not at all uncommon in law enforcement. A fatal mistake. A partner who dies… or one who gets paralysed.” His dad nods once, almost like he’s already guessed the reason why Donovan has gone after Stiles in the first place. _Revenge_. His father closes his eyes, and for a second, painfully transparent guilt appears on his expression – enough for Stiles to place a hand on his now. A bit of comfort, for a bit of clarity. “Stiles, you carry that with you, and sometimes, it doesn’t truly feel okay again until there’s a kind of counterbalance.” He’s not stopped suffering from what happened on the day his former partner was hurt. Maybe he never will.

Stiles swallows. “Like what?”

“Like instead of taking a life, you manage to save one.”

He’s saved four. Or helped resurrect four. But he’ll have to cross one out for the life he watched fading away, for the father he saw dying at the hand of his daughter. Neither makes him feel any better. Neither makes this all-consuming guilt go away.

“Something like that can help, but maybe only for a moment.” It’s not. It doesn’t take away anything. It doesn’t _help_. “The real conflict you’re having now is between your head and your heart.” His dad doesn’t smile when he gently ruffles Stiles’ hair. But that doesn’t matter. It’s his soft voice that makes him feel protected despite being responsible for someone’s death – accident or not. “Your head- your head knows that the _only_ crime you committed was surviving.”

Yes. He survived. He survived but someone else paid the price for it. Although Stiles is aware that the only other outcome of their scenario would’ve been Donovan going through with his promise, his insides turn cold whenever he thinks about it. _We don’t kill people we’re trying to save_. Donovan was the Dread Doctor’s victim. They were supposed to help them. But what could he have done? Donovan was so much stronger than him. There was no other way. Pulling this pin has been his only shot at survival. He couldn’t have known what would happen. He couldn’t have known the pipe would fall and kill him.

Maybe he should’ve expected it. People tell him he’s smart. Maybe he should’ve _known_. If he’s that smart, how could he have believed that after pulling this pin everything would turn out okay?

“But your heart? Your heart still thinks it was murder.”

It’s getting harder by the second to keep the tears away. Perhaps he should let them come. He’s allowed to feel terrible, isn’t he?

“So, I guess you gotta get your heart to catch up with your head.” His dad’s voice is almost unbearably soft, and he squeezes his hand tightly.

Stiles takes a deep breath, but his voice cracks in all the wrong places, “I feel like it’s more than guilt though, you know. I feel like-“ a tear finally steals its way out of the corner of his eye, and he wipes it away hastily- “I feel like I lost something. You know,” Stiles says, stops again to gather his thoughts, to describe this empty part somewhere deep inside of him, “I feel like I can’t get it back.”

Silence stretches between them, heavy and ruthless and filled with knowledge he’d rather not learn. Stiles realises that his father is still in the very same position he’s in right now, and the soft expression darkens with the helplessness of a man who can’t help his son, who can’t take away what makes his kid unhappy. Stiles wonders if he thinks about his mother, wonders if he thinks he’s failing his family again.

“You won’t.” The words are so quiet, so full of pain, that Stiles almost didn’t catch them – but he has, and the disbelief is parting his lips even though every single thing he could possibly say clings to his throat refusing to get out. “Not entirely. But you get a little bit by forgiving yourself.”

 _Forgiving himself_? Stiles shakes his head. He can’t. He _won’t_. Self-defence or not, he should’ve found another way, another option. He should’ve done something differently.

His dad squeezes his hand again, a lot tighter than before. Stiles looks at him, not caring about the tear rolling down his cheek this time. “And since that’s not always the easiest thing in the world to do, then maybe you should believe the people who forgive you. Because I do.” His dad smiles again, soft and loving and genuine. “I forgive you for what happened. I should’ve been there for you-“

“No, Dad, that’s not-“

“I shouldn’t have painted this target on your back.”

“ _Dad_.”

“And I’m sorry for doing whatever I did to lose your trust.”

A sob claws its way out of his chest. He can’t keep it away, doesn’t want to. What he wants is to curls into a ball right here, right now – and he allows himself to do it. With another painful sob, Stiles pulls his legs onto the bed and leans forward. His dad hugs him before his head hits the pillow. They used to do this all the time; on nights when his mother was at the hospital, after a terrible nightmare, when he hasn’t seen his dad for a while because there was stress at the station. They haven’t done this since his mother died. But nothing has changed. His father’s arms are still the safest space on this earth.


	4. the monster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't thank you guys enough. It makes me so, so happy to see all this support in the form of kudos and comments and bookmarks! Love you lots! <3

His dad kicked him out of the hospital room sometime in the afternoon telling him in a voice that wouldn’t allow any objections that he needed to go home or do something with his friends, that he couldn’t hole up in his hospital room day after day if he ever wanted to feel better. Stiles decided to keep the problematic relationship with his friends to himself, but he left, knowing that his dad would go all the way to call security on his ass to guide him out of the hospital. He doesn’t want to walk to an empty home or Jordan’s equally empty flat. He doesn’t want to spend time at the station either – which is why Stiles ends up at the school remembering the library clean-up planned for today. He doubts he’ll meet any of his friends – Liam and Mason planning to find the nemeton, Lydia recovering from Theo knocking her out and locking her up with Malia, who doesn’t spend more time at school than strictly necessary, and Scott, well, Stiles isn’t too sure where Scott could be right now.

That’s why Stiles is surprised when he runs into a beaming Corey. “ _What_ are you doing here?”

“I volunteered for the library clean-up.”

Stiles quirks a brow. “Does Theo know about this?”

The smile flickers and dims until he looks almost sad. Twiddling with the hem of his jacket, Corey lowers his gaze. _Oh no_. This is really not a conversation he wants to have. It’s not even a conversation he is equipped to have. At all. Honestly, he doesn’t care if Corey betrays Theo. The fucker deserves it, and Corey deserves better, so, _so_ much better. But Stiles can neither force him to re-evaluate his loyalties nor can he tell him what to do.

Uncomfortably, Stiles crosses and uncrosses his arms. “I just hoped he’s training you is all.”

It takes about a second for Corey’s mood to shift again. “Oh, he did!”

Stiles blinks. That’s not exactly what he’s expected to hear. “He did?”

“All day yesterday. We’re all getting really good. I can control it now,” Corey says, words tumbling over each other as he grabs Stiles’ hand and places his other against the lockers to his right. Nothing happened aside from Stiles feeling somewhat weird about standing in the middle of the school hallway while Corey is holding his hand – only a second later, it feels as if someone empties a bucket of ice water over his head. The world around him stays mostly the same with only one difference; everything becomes suddenly sharper as if the focus has been dialled up to a thousand.

“Holy shit,” Stiles breathes.

Corey beams. “I know. It’s so cool.” He lets go of his hand, and the icy feeling returns. As cool as it is to become invisible, that’s disgusting. “Tracy is by far the best. But Hayden is really good as well!” The excitement radiating off him in waves makes it hard to tell him to stop. He’s like a completely different person. “Josh was a bit bummed out until Theo hooked him up to a car battery tho. He’s really-"

“I’m sorry?” Stiles interrupts unsure whether he’s heard that correctly. “Theo hooked Josh up on _what_?”

Corey eyes him a bit unsure. “A car battery,” he repeats after a moment of hesitation.

 _Really_? Getting someone addicted to something isn’t quite the training method Stiles prefers, but if it _works_. It’s hard to argue with something that turns out to be successful even if it’s unconventional – and in the supernatural world, that much he’s learned, the ends oftentimes justify the means. “Huh.” Stiles runs his fingers through his hair with a frown. “We’ll see how well he trained you on the first-“ his phone interrupts him mid-sentence. Thanks to his father’s desire to constantly be available to his deputies, Stiles had to bring a charger to the hospital. Although he's frowned about it yesterday, today he's used it himself glaring at his dad after every highly amused comment. 

Corey eyes him curiously as Stiles hesitates to answer the phone. Talking to Theo is the last thing he has energy for but when he remembers what happened this morning, it’s probably a wise choice not to let him wait. When he pulls out his phone, however, he finds Jordan's contact picture staring back at him. “Hello?”

“They found the nemeton.”

The words need a second to sink in. “They-" that doesn't make any fucking sense- "what? Who?” Liam and Mason can’t possibly have found the nemeton already, right? They didn’t even know where to start looking other than the preserve – and that’s not giving much away in terms of location. They couldn’t have found it. That’s impossible.

“Clarke.”

“ _Clarke_? How did she-“

“Hayden led her to the nemeton.”

“ _Hayden_?” Stiles echoes in disbelief. This has to be a mistake. Why would Hayden bring her sister to the nemeton? Theo would never have allowed that. Or would he? He glances at Corey, who’s watching him with quirked brows. Does he know about this? It’s so hard to imagine this happened with anybody being aware of it.

Perhaps her guilty conscience made her go back there, and yet- if Theo finds out about that... Stiles bites the inside of his lip.

Jordan sighs, clearly not that surprised about previously dead chimeras suddenly walking around again. Not that anything in this town is surprising at all any longer. “We found six bodies at the nemeton.” Of course, they’ve found six bodies. After eleven chimeras- _wait._ Six bodies aren’t enough bodies. There has to be one more. There _has_ to be. “None of them is Donovan.”

A breath gets stuck in Stiles’ throat. That’s not possible. Donovan has to be there. He’s _dead_. Jordan carried him to the nemeton. His body has to be there. “I don’t understand.” Stiles presses his lips into a thin line and stares at his bandaged hand. Corey keeps eyeing him expectantly, his gaze tangible on the side of his face. Nothing about this makes any fucking sense; aside from _four_ missing bodies. He knows about that. He saw it happen. Even if he cannot explain what green soup Theo’s used to bring them back to life, that’s nothing he has to worry about. But Donovan? His body should still be there. It had to be. Unless... unless Theo went back to the nemeton. Maybe he could find it after Stiles has shown him the way. But why would Theo go back to resurrect Donovan? He'd give away an advantage. He’d lose any kind of leverage he had over him. Stiles clenches his jaw. Or did he do it so he could call in a favour? With Theo, too many possibilities exist.

“Listen, I know that the potential of Donovan being still alive relieves you,” Jordan says in a hushed tone, “but I want you to come to the station.”

Stiles blinks. “I’m at school for the library clean-up.”

“If Donovan is alive-“ Jordan breaks off. Footsteps of multiple people are audible in the background. A door opens and someone says something Stiles can’t make out. “I’ll be on that in a sec, Strauss.” A soft response followed by the door falling shut. As if Jordan doesn’t already have enough stress with the sheriff gone for a while; now he can deal with five dead teenagers and this other chimera dude with the weird glowing claws. Yeah, Stiles really doesn’t know how he’s going to explain these little extras to the rest of the deputies. “Listen, if Donovan’s back, he is most likely coming after you. I’m going to send Valerie to pick you up. She’s babysitting Hayden anyway. Stay inside the library, I don’t want you anywhere alone. Understood?”

“Isn’t that a bit-“

“ _Understood_?”

Fucking hell. “Yes, _Dad_.”

Jordan takes a deep breath, hesitates for a while, then says, “I’m just… worried about you.”

Stiles rubs his eyebrows with the ball of his hand, unable to untangle gratitude and annoyance from one another. He gets the same feelings when his dad is trying to protect him. Having someone else act like that is decidedly new. He bites the inside of his cheek, tries his hardest to hide a smile. “I know,” Stiles says leaning against the lockers behind him. “I get it.”

“So, you won’t make a fuss when Valerie picks you up?”

“I promise I’ll behave.”

“How very thoughtful of you.”

“I know,” Stiles says unable to hide a tiny grin, “I’m a treat to be around.”

Jordan only hums, then hangs up. To be perfectly honest, it’s hard to tell what exactly happened between them that Stiles feels so very familiar with him. Sure, they’ve known each other for a while now and went through some stuff. He’s also aware that his father likes and trusts Jordan a lot – which is pretty self-explanatory, otherwise he wouldn’t have insisted that Stiles stayed at his place for the time being. It still doesn’t quite explain why Stiles chose his dad’s favourite deputy as the person he admits to what happened to Donovan.

Stiles turns to tell Corey what happened, but he’s vanished into thin air. Potentially. He could also be right here. “Corey?” His voice is hesitant. He doesn’t want to sound too needy about company, even though talking to Corey felt strangely normal. “Co-“

The door opens forcefully. Stiles turns, half expecting it to be Corey who sneaks out of the school for whatever possible reasons – maybe he isn’t even allowed to talk to him, and he just remembered – when a pair of very familiar white sneakers enter the hallway. Stiles has seen their owner entirely too often in the last couple of days for it to be coincidental. But there he is, live and in a questionably coloured jumper. Crossing his arms, Stiles prepares himself for the next bullshit Theo’s come up with.

And it’s going to be something big.

The door closes, takes away most of the evening sun’s light again. Theo walks a few steps towards him but remains at a distance, which seems almost weird. His respect for personal space was basically non-existent in the last couple of days. When he stops, he folds his hands in front of his stomach. Theo's eyes never leave his, and he smirks this fucking smirk Stiles has learned to hate so much. “You don’t have to hide from me Corey,” Theo says in place of a greeting.

Corey reappears pressed against the lockers, and Theo turns to face him. “I was trying to do something nice.”

“You were trying to do something normal,” Theo corrects him causing Stiles to grind his teeth in disdain. He makes it sound like that’s a bad thing. “But you don’t have to be normal anymore.” The worst thing about his words is how they’re spoken. Such a soft, understanding, almost gentle voice. It’s easy to fall for. Easy to connect to. Even Stiles finds himself listening. “You definitively don’t have to be nice.”

 _Nevermind_.

“Well, I’m not going to hurt them.”

Stiles expects Theo to lash out at those words, and he can’t stop himself from stepping closer in case he has to intervene. Because he would. Corey doesn’t deserve whatever treatment Theo has planned for him.

“Look,” Theo says turning his head to glance at Stiles, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly, “I don’t want you to.” Now, that sounds like the biggest lie he’s ever told. “In fact,” Theo continues returning his attention to Corey, “they don’t know it yet, but we’re going to protect them.” He can’t be fucking serious about this. This guy has to be on some kind of drugs. “Just like I’m gonna protect you.” Theo never drops the soft voice full of understanding. He even has the nerve to put a hand on Corey’s shoulder. The gesture doesn’t even look half as patronising as it should be coming from someone like him.

What an actor.

What a fucking actor.

Corey doesn’t look convinced. He doesn’t smile. For the flicker of a second, he frowns like he’s not sure about anything Theo has told him. Which is a good thing. Maybe there’s hope for the kid. But Stiles’ noticing it, means Theo noticed it as well.

And he isn’t happy about it.

Theo’s grip around Corey’s shoulder tightens, and he steps closer. His genuine seeming compassion for his beta’s feelings drops like a deadweight, and his voice turns cruel. “So, you’re gonna come with me,” Theo says without even looking at him, “and you’re gonna do everything that I’ll tell you.” His blue eyes focus on Corey again, voice hardening even more. It’s a threat hidden behind what could be a simple statement. “Because I know you don’t wanna die again.”

Corey swallows.

“Theo,” Stiles snaps but neither as much as chances a glance in his direction.

“Do you, Corey?”

The smallest shake of his head. This isn’t respect, it’s fear and that’s not something that should exist within a pack. But Theo is smiling again. “Okay,” he says in a low voice and the grip on Corey's shoulder loosens. “Josh is waiting in the car. I’ll be with you in a moment.” With the same smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, Theo pats Corey’s shoulder amicably and watches him walk away.

“You gonna threaten me again?”

Theo turns only after the door has fallen shut behind Corey. “Jordan is right, you know?”

Stiles scoffs, “you wanna protect me from a problem you created?” Because Theo going back to the nemeton to resurrect Donovan is the only thing that makes sense. Donovan couldn’t have survived the accident. Wendigos don’t heal the same way other supernatural creatures do. So, unless the Dread Doctors used werewolf DNA on all of their creations, being impaled by a pole means pretty much certain death. Parrish carried him to the nemeton as well.

With a chuckle, Theo takes a step closer. “I didn’t resurrect Donovan. His body wasn’t even at the nemeton.” His blue eyes light up with some sort of intense fascination when he looks up at him. “Guess you didn’t notice that, did you? You were way too smitten by a magical tree, huh?”

_Hilarious._

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Who else would have a reason to resurrect Donovan?”

“The Dread Doctors,” Theo says like that’s obvious. “They’re not too big on second chances, but Donovan’s results were promising enough to make an exception.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that Donovan would’ve survived, if not for you.” Something crosses over Theo’s expression, a shadow, perhaps, and he narrows his eyes for barely a second. It’s not something Stiles could’ve seen if he hadn’t studied Theo closely in the last month. _Know your enemy_ is a motto he’s lived by ever since Scott has been bitten. Even if the odds aren’t always in his favour, Stiles intends to get out of this alive.

“So, he has something everyone else doesn’t.”

This time, Theo’s expression darkens precariously. “Donovan isn’t _special_ ,” Theo snaps, every word sharper than the one before, “he’s just something else they can do their research on to better their work.” That means Donovan is technically a success like Theo which means the two distinctively differs from every other chimera they've created so far. It also means Theo isn’t that special of a snowflake anymore. Surprising Donovan even made it out of the operation theatre. Theo killing him right then and there wouldn’t have been that out of character.

But it’s intriguing either way. What separates these two from the rest of the bunch? Strength of mind? Physical strength? The Dread Doctors are clearly looking for something they haven’t found yet. Donovan, however, might bring them a step further.

Thinking about that reminded him that he knows jack shit about chimeras – what it means to become one, how people are turned into one, and what abilities they possess. There are only two things he knows; they are immune to mountain ash, and they are stronger than the average human. But how strong? Theo had been able to set Stiles’ jeep back on its wheels. Was he stronger than a bitten or born werewolf? It’s not like him to ignore research, not to ask questions, not to figure out everything possible about a new supernatural creature. Stiles doubts there’s somewhere he could start looking. They’re experiments and Theo is- _was_ the only one who was strong enough to survive the transformation. No one had ever written anything down. No one aside from the Dread Doctors at least. Stiles would sell his soul to get his hands on those research papers. Lydia would be- he stops the thought from forming, swallows instead and pushes the topic to the back of his mind.

“Why didn’t you tell me immediately?”

Theo raises his brows and sighs. “I may have been a little distracted.”

“Distracted?” Stiles echoes shaking his head. “What could’ve distracted someone with razor-sharp attention like yours?”

The smile curling around Theo’s lips doesn’t exactly look friendly. He noticed the sarcasm then. _Good._ “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe this.” He grabs Stiles’ wrist and holds the bandaged hand up to his face. His previous annoyance makes way for fascination, and his eyes light up with excitement. “Aren’t you curious what it wants from you?”

“My hand, by the looks of it,” Stiles replies immediately, although he knows exactly what Theo’s talking about. The humming, the electricity in his veins, this weird connection they’re sharing. Never before has he felt the nemeton as much as he’s felt it that night, although he has been connected to it for far longer.

Theo lets go of his hand, and Stiles pushes it in the pocket of his hoodie as if hiding it from view would somehow make him forget. “The nemeton sees something in you, and I’ll figure out what that is.” Power. That’s what he wants. That’s all he wants. Theo hopes that this godforsaken tree stump gifted Stiles some of its power. Doubtful. All he’s learned about the nemeton is that it means trouble. It draws supernatural creatures here. It somehow is important to the Dread Doctors. It saved the darach. It used to be a sacred place for druids. There’s only one druid he knows, and if Deaton gives any indication of how druids are, then they’re shady dickheads who refuse to give a straight answer, and Stiles doesn’t need more people like that in his life.

“Write me a letter if you learn anything.”

The smile is back, a lot sharper this time. “We have to postpone this conversation.”

“What?”

He’s barely managed to get the word out when the door bangs open again. This time, it’s Hayden who stands in the waning light of the sun. She stares at them, uncertainty lining her features. When Theo looks at her over his shoulder, she presses her lips together until they’re barely visible. After a moment of what seems to be wordless communication, Hayden takes a step back. “Val,” she yells without looking away from them, “I found Stiles.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” he curses under his breath.

Theo laughs.

The radio crackles to life halfway back to the station requesting an assistance request for a technician that hasn’t been heard from after entering the communication towers. Clarke briefly confirms that she’ll be checking it out since they’re nearby anyway. Her gaze darts to the rear-view mirror, eying Stiles checking out his bandaged hand while pointedly ignoring her gaze as he has done for the whole drive. He is rightfully pissed about her telling Jordan that Stiles has been alone with Theo in the school instead of the library like he’s promised while she thinks it was her duty to do so. All conversations she’s tried to start died out because even Hayden happens to be rather unresponsive.

“You’re gonna drag me to work every night?” Hayden asks after a long stretch of silence from her seat next to Stiles. Despite her sister’s frown, she’d chosen to occupy the backseat instead of the passenger’s seat. Maybe it’s some form of teenager alliance she’s feeling because they’re essentially in the same boat, which is a weird thought in and of itself if he’s totally honest.

Clarke shoots her a displeased look. “If I have to.”

“You can’t keep an eye on me twenty-four seven,” Hayden bites back, her tone becoming bitchier than Stiles has ever heard it before.

Clarke doesn’t even get annoyed at her behaviour. “You disappeared for three days,” she says, a tiny bit of amusement clinging to her every word. “I’m keeping an eye on you for the rest of your natural-born life.”

This isn’t a conversation Stiles is supposed to be part of, but the look Hayden shoots him is a clear cry for help. He raises his brows with a small, pitying smile but refrains from commenting on anything. How often has he heard his dad tell him he’ll ground him until the end of his days? Clarke’s going to be pissed for a couple of days, and then everything returns to normal. Having entered the supernatural world, this is going to be something she needs to get used to unless she confesses the truth.

“I told you I was with Liam!” Hayden’s defence has Stiles wincing internally. That’s not a good idea.

Clarke seems to agree, and for the first time, a tinge of anger slips into her voice. “That doesn’t improve your argument.” When her sister doesn’t reply and instead crosses her arms and stares out of the window, Clarke sighs. “Maybe you think you can do our own thing now. I don’t care. You still need me.” She smiles as she looks into the rearview mirror, and Hayden leans forward a bit, surprised and wary of her genuine understanding. “We look out of each other, remember?”

Hayden closes her eyes: an all too familiar internal struggle visible. Maybe not for Clarke but certainly for Stiles. He’s been there. He knows how it feels to hate lying to the only family he has, hoping against hope that it would keep them safe from all the shit constantly crossing through Beacon Hills.

“For all I know, you could’ve been dead,” Clarke says, and in spite of the finality to her voice, a dreadful sadness clings to it.

Stiles glances at Hayden out of the corner of his eye but she is looking out of the window again. He follows her example yet puts his hand on hers remembering how the simple gesture of placing a hand on Derek’s shoulder has helped him. For a moment, Hayden doesn’t move, doesn’t even react, and he’s about to pull his hand back when she grabs it, squeezing tightly. Stiles squeezes back.

Clarke has been gone for a while, and neither Hayden nor Stiles have much to talk about. He’s tried to convince her to be honest about the whole supernatural problem but after she’s told him _no_ twice, he gave up and stared at his phone and the fourteenth call from Lydia he’s ignored since Friday night. Her insistence is admirable, but her texts have become more and more furious the longer he ignored her. She hasn’t come looking for him at the hospital – neither has Scott, who he hasn’t heard from ever since he tried to convince Stiles not to go with Theo – only asked how his father is and when he would be home so they could talk. It seems as if nobody knows he’s living with Jordan for the time being. Which is good, because Stiles knows the guy couldn’t turn anybody away.

Theo has yet to call.

Hayden’s head jerks up without warning.

“What?”

She hushes him and steps out of the car having heard or smelled something. _Great_. Knowing it won’t do him any good, Stiles sinks deeper into the backseat. Hiding from the supernatural rarely turns out to be successful. The usual anxiety washing over him when potential danger looms over him doesn’t come. He half expects it to be Theo, who may be a fucking asshole, but isn’t all that threatening; a position he put himself in after admitting that he’s curious about what the nemeton wants. Even if Stiles starts bitching, Theo won’t immediately hurt his father, and he most definitively won’t kill him. He’s not stupid enough to take leverage away; that’s also why he hasn’t told him about Donovan’s disappearance. Being distracted his _ass_.

“Liam!” Hayden suddenly shrieks.

“Sorry!”

“What are you doing here?”

Stiles sinks even deeper into his seat, hoping the tinted windows and Liam’s infatuation with Hayden somehow prevents him from being noticed. The guy is going to be pissed if he figures out that Stiles has already known she’s alive and didn’t tell him.

But for now, Liam seems to be distracted enough. “I sent you like 100 texts.”

This is another conversation he definitively shouldn’t be part of.

Hayden hesitates for a second. “I saw.”

“You- you saw?” Liam asks, his voice heavy with hurt. “That’s it? How could you not tell me that you’re alive?”

Maybe he should draw attention to himself because he really doesn’t want these two to either have their big reunion with him sitting a foot away from them or for Hayden to break up with Liam while all that’s separating them is a goddamn police car door.

Doesn’t seem like Hayden cares that much. “Maybe because you left me for dead?”

“You-“ Liam sounds irritated somehow, “you were dead.”

Hayden glances inside the car for the flicker of a second. “Liam,” she says then turning to look back at him, “you need to go.”

But he doesn’t. In fact, Liam turns his head to the side with a sigh. Even though Stiles whips his head around, playing dumb – ‘if I can’t seem him, he won’t be able to see me’ hasn’t worked since he was a little kid and adults played along dutifully – Liam notices him. His name happens to sound almost indistinguishable from a sharp, very angry intake of breath.

“It’s not his fault,” Hayden says.

Stiles appreciates her attempt at calming Liam down. But the guy doesn’t give a shit about her words. The door flies open and a hand curls around his upper arm. Unceremoniously, Liam drags Stiles over the backseat, ignoring his quiet wince – supernatural creatures love yanking him around nowadays it seems – and practically flings him out of the car. Before Stiles manages to get his legs back under him, Liam snarls, “ _you knew_?”

“Liam-“

“You knew and you _didn’t tell me_?”

His aggression is relatable. Stiles would certainly be pissed off as well – he’s still surprised that, when he turns around, a fist is flying his way. He sucks in a breath, preparing himself for a horrifically painful impact that never comes. Hayden grabs Liam’s arm with both hands and yanks him back and around, shoving him against the car with a snarl. “I asked him to stay silent,” she says in the most unexpected turn of events Stiles has ever had the honour to witness. “He didn’t want to, but I made him promise.” The thing is, she’s not only protecting Stiles with these words. She’s also protecting Theo.

And that’s not good.

Loud footsteps combined with a snarl that can only come from a giant creature yanks their cumulated attention away from the problem at hand and towards the communication towers’ entrance. Stiles is about a hundred percent sure Liam did hit him and what he sees is the result of losing consciousness because whatever that _thing_ tearing the door out of its frame is, it couldn’t possibly exist. It’s not just the blazing blue eyes that make the creature seem like a terrible hallucination. Its size is another factor heavily weighing into the suspicion. But the most disconcerting indicator that this thing cannot possibly exist is the black smoke curling around it.

The door lands in front of the car.

“What the hell is that?” Hayden yells over the roar of the creature.

Liam grabs her hand. “ _Run_.” He reaches for Stiles’ hand as well but there’s no way he could outrun it – and he only slows them down.

“Go,” he screams, “go, _go_.”

They do.

Stiles doesn’t check where they’re running to, he doesn’t look in the direction of the creature either. Without waiting a beat, he darts forward, throws himself on his stomach and crawls under the car. He’s blatantly aware that he’s done it in plain sight. But even running in the opposite direction would’ve been a pointless endeavour. All he can do now is hope that the thing is more interested in other supernatural creatures – and that Hayden and Liam can outrun it.


	5. memories

Hoodies, Stiles figures, will become his favourite piece of clothing. Although he’s known at school, a hood pulled deep into his face makes it easy to weave through the mass of students. The rain, after having made track practise a living hell, helps to make him look much more inconspicuous as well. He’s one of many students hiding underneath their hoods.

His goal is the cafeteria, although he isn’t exactly in the mood for eating in company, and starving as he is, his options are very much limited. Today, Coach has finally come back to school; a month later than normal due to his rehab – apparently, they didn’t just help him with his alcoholism but additionally infected him with even more motivation to torture his students. If this morning’s track practise is any indication for his newest stance on school sports, lacrosse practise will be horrendous. Stiles regrets thinking that track would be useful when it comes to running away from things that are trying to eat him. His legs already disagree, and he doesn't really want to think about how his muscles are going to feel tomorrow.

His phone vibrates, and Stiles pulls it out of his pocket. Yet again, it’s not a call from Theo he’s been dreading for a while but instead an alarm to eat. Since he can normally bank on the others to remind him about lunch period, Stiles now needs to return to his summer break habit of setting alarms. Jordan brought it up almost casually in conversation on Saturday, making it clear that his father briefed his current flatmate about eventual problems. To calm poor Jordan’s nerves, Stiles has programmed reminders for lunch and dinner into his phone since those are the times he’s most often alone. He contemplates deleting his lunch alarm – perhaps track does help in more than one way – when he remembers that they overslept, and Stiles’ breakfast consisted of a questionable tasty coffee.

The cafeteria is already full when he enters crushing his dream of having a table by himself. He spots Theo near the serving counter listening, more or less interested, to what Hayden tells him and Corey. As per usual, the seniors share their lunch period with the sophomores. The principal still believes it would prevent cliques from forming since, essentially, they have lunch with new people every school year. Stiles isn’t invested enough in the life of others to figure out if this technique is actually effective.

Returning his attention to the small range of lunches, Stiles grabs what passes as quesadillas if he squints really hard, an apple and chocolate milk – a combination only to be found in a school cafeteria. His lunch tray, however, vanishes from in front of him before he even reaches the cashier.

“I expected you to drink skinny milk,” Theo announces dropping money on the counter with a smirk. “Seems as if I still have a lot to learn about you.” His expression is almost coy when he looks up at him.

Rolling his eyes, Stiles swipes the banknote away before the cashier can pick it up and presses one of his own in his hand instead. Ever since his mother’s medical bills, as well as his own stay at Eichen House, have miraculously been paid for, their lives have not only gotten a lot easier, his dad has also become a lot more generous when it comes to his allowance – and he offered to pay for whatever’s wrong with Roscoe. Stiles still has to figure out what that’s all about because when he checked his dad’s bank account, nothing suspicious popped up.

Stiles takes his change, slips the ten-dollar bill underneath the collar of Theo’s shirt - it’s the little things he has to be satisfied with – and stalks to the table Hayden and Corey sit at. They raise their brows in unison as Theo slams the tray down in front of Stiles. “You wanted to carry it,” he informs him coolly pulling his food in front of him. “Don’t be a prat now.”

The look Theo shoots him as he yanks the bill from his clothes informs Stiles that he’s toeing a very fine line. “Years of dealing with the supernatural and you decide to hide under a car.”

Oh, so Hayden recited yesterday’s little adventure. “I couldn’t exactly run away from it,” Stiles mumbles with the quesadilla between his front teeth.

“It’s fast,” Hayden agrees quietly.

Theo puts his chin on his hand. “The nemeton would’ve surely helped you.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “You still on that?” He drops the quesadilla scowling. It has the distinct taste of unfinishedness. Hunger is the best seasoning, though, and it's not like he wants to go and buy something else that tastes like shit. The cafeteria used to be decent before their former chef decided it’s time for him to retire despite loving working here. The new cook acts as if neither seasoning nor cooking time means anything to her.

“This fucking tree almost crushed my hand.” Stiles wiggles his fingers pointedly, then picks at the quesadilla with his fingers. It's dry as a desert. _Amazing_. Maybe he should start bringing his own food. If track wears him out this much, he can’t count on school lunch to get him through the day. He also doesn’t plan on dying of food poisoning. Which would be a laughable ending. ‘Survived thousand-year-old fox demon, died by undercooked quesadilla.’

Hayden nibbles on a French fry, casting Corey, who’s already finished eating, a nervous glance.

Seemingly bored, Theo flicks a sesame seed across his empty tray. His gaze darts across the students’ faces for the few silent seconds Stiles uses to force down more of his food – the sooner he finishes his lunch, the sooner he can leave this table – until he turns back around smirking. “Scotty doesn’t like what he sees.” Theo nods in the direction of the cafeteria’s entrance.

Slowly, Stiles raises his head to find Lydia, Malia, and Scott blocking the doorway. They stare at him silently all wearing a different expression. There’s contempt on Malia’s face, pure and genuine; anger only possible when love was involved or, at the very least, something very similar. Scott eyes him with honest confusion – as if he wonders why he’s not with them, as if he wonders how Stiles could sit here next to another murderer, next to _his_ murderer. It’s Lydia he can’t turn away from. Lydia with her hair in a loose ponytail, with the dark bruise shining through a layer of foundation.

Swallowing, Stiles stares at his food again, suddenly not particularly hungry any longer, and curls his fingers around the edge of the table. He lets out a breath, then looks up watching as Lydia purses her lips like she’s trying to hold back something. Stiles swallows and lowers his head again. Dealing with her scares the shit out of him. He’s never been this terrified of confrontation. After telling Jordan the truth, it felt a bit easier to talk to his dad. The panic was still there, but for some reason, he knew it would turn out okay somehow. 

He can't say the same thing about Lydia.

The second he attempts to push away from the table, however, Theo grabs his thigh. “We’re not done here.”

“What do you _want_?”

Theo clicks his tongue disapprovingly. “Do I have to go over this again?”

“Kira has left Beacon Hills,” Stiles hisses shoving Theo’s hand away from his leg, “and everyone else knows the real you.” Clenching his jaw, he turns to look Theo straight in the eye. Why is he even doing this to himself? Why doesn’t just get up and leave? The worst thing Theo can do is yank him back onto his chair and show everyone that Stiles isn’t sitting here because he likes the guy so much. But his curiosity is so much stronger. “What do you think you’re getting out of this?”

For what feels like an eternity, Theo remains quiet and looks at him. The grin on his lips widens ever so slowly; a sight that makes dread pool in Stiles’ stomach. “You,” he says in a low, almost husky voice. Despite himself, Stiles leans closer and Theo does as well when he continues, “all I care about is getting you.”

The words feel like a resounding slap – or maybe it’s the meaning behind them or the feeling they leave behind. _Want_. Someone wanting him. But it’s Theo these words are coming from. It’s _Theo_. Stiles gets to his feet, chair toppling over, losing its balance. The sound of it falling to the floor is deafening. It also snaps him back into reality. Theo wanting him is _bad_. That’s nothing to be intrigued by, that’s nothing to _want_. Stiles isn’t like him, never will be like him. This time, when Theo reaches for his hand, he moves away quick enough. “Don’t touch me.”

Theo is on his feet a second later, much smoother and with less noise. He doesn’t even hesitate to get right into Stiles’ face giving the impression that he’s much taller than he actually is. “You wanna crawl back to Scott? Kiss his ass?” Theo asks with a low growl, clearly angered by Stiles’ unwillingness to dance to his every tune. “You don’t know what he really thinks about you.”

Stiles furrows his brows. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I could tell you, but I doubt you’ll believe me.”

“Probably because you’ll be lying your ass off.”

“I’ve never lied to you, Stiles.” Theo ignores his scoff, and instead raises a hand, pushes it past his hood until Stiles feels blunt human nails pressing against the nape of his neck. “But there’s a way to make you believe me,” he whispers stepping even closer, completely disregarding that people stare at them. “I can’t manipulate my memories.”

They lock eyes, and Stiles feels wrong excitement bubbling up, the strange and impossible to ignore desire to know. _But the way that it happened_. Scott’s words are ringing in his ears, loud and louder, deafening, drowning out every other thought. _There’s a point when it’s not self-defence anymore_. It makes even less sense now that his dad and Jordan reassured him that everything that happened was an accident. He assumed that Theo would’ve told Scott the same story he told his dad, the only difference being that Scott knows the truth, that Scott knows Stiles has been the perpetrator. But that doesn’t seem to be the case. What does Scott believe happened? What did Theo tell him?

Stiles licks his lips. “If you think, I’ll let your claws anywhere near me, you’re dead wrong.”

Although Theo quirks a brow, the smile on his face seems eerily satisfied. “You deserve to know the truth.”

“Like you care.”

“Contrary to popular belief,” Theo says stepping away and folding his arms over his chest, “I do care about what happens to you- more than others it seems.” He shifts his attention in the direction of the serving counter.

Stiles follows his gaze and finds Scott, Malia and Lydia choosing their lunch but only the latter is looking at him, her expression much less irritated than before. It almost softened, like she found the answer to a question nobody asked out loud. Even though Scott and Malia don’t look at him, they’re clearly listening to every word.

His vision locks on the rigid line Scott’s shoulders are in. _You weren’t supposed to do this_. To do what? What did he _do_?

Taking a deep breath, Stiles shakes his head. “Fuck you.”

“I don’t think our relationship has evolved that far.” Theo sits down gesturing to the chair next to him.

“I’m not hungry.” That’s a lie. Although his stomach turns at the simple thought of food, there’s bone-deep exhaustion lurking within him that can only stem from not having eaten enough. It’s not a great feeling, especially not in addition to his wobbly legs. Stiles doubts he’ll be able to run half a mile tomorrow.

With a chuckle, Theo leans back in his chair. His eyes harden distinctively. “Sit down.” His voice is soft, his words sounding like a request. But it’s not. Stiles can tell that Theo isn’t asking him to sit down at all. It’s a command. That asshole thinks he can boss everyone around now, can he?

Stiles bends down to grab his backpack. Before he straightens, he locks eyes with Theo. “If you don’t let me go, I’m going to cause a scene.”

Theo raps his fingers against the tabletop, glances at Hayden and Corey momentarily who both seem far too invested with their empty lunch trays not to be listening in. “You’ll come back,” he says after a short stretch of silence. “You’re far too curious to stay away.”

Shouldering his backpack, Stiles sends a last fake smile in Theo’s direction. “Whatever gets you through the day.” With a small nod at the other two, he turns around and walks away, heart hammering in his chest, expecting, with every step, that Theo will call him back, demand him to stop. It never happens. He lets him go.

 _For now_.

A click of heels announces the arrival of a person Stiles has dreaded to meet since the fallout with Scott. Lydia links arms with him shooting a withering look in his direction that cuts through the protective fabric of his hood. “If you think,” she warns in a very low, and very dangerous tone Stiles knows better than to object to, “you can keep ignoring me, I will tell my mom to put you in detention for the rest of senior year.”

Her tone becomes noticeably lighter towards the end of the sentence; light enough, in fact, that Stiles dares to lock eyes with her. “I haven’t been aware counsellors can put students in detention.”

“Counsellors can’t,” she informs him briskly, “principals, however, have the ability to do so.”

That information stuns Stiles into immobility. “Principal?” He echoes, trying to figure out if he missed something important. “Why? When?” It’s impossible not to feel happy for her and Natalie; still, the news came out of nowhere, although, judging by the way Lydia throws her ponytail over her shoulder with a tiny yet significantly proud grin, she wanted to tell him for quite some time. 

Lydia looks guilty for a second. “Well,” she says clearing her throat and resumes to walk, “haven’t you heard? Our principal has been hurt by an animal.”

“ _Oh_.” Stiles swallows heavily around a lump in his throat. The happiness suddenly turns sour. He’s been too busy wallowing in his guilt and fear that he completely blocked out the rest of the world.

But that most likely means people were hurt by the thing he’s seen yesterday. _Fuck_. He has to figure out what that monstrosity is and where it came from – and how to end it.

“He’s alive,” Lydia adds hastily, almost as if to make sure that he would never, ever think of her as someone who cherished personal gain over another person’s health, “but he already resigned. Mom offered, and everyone considered it a great idea.” The grin she shows him now is much smaller, then vanishes completely. Biting her bottom lip, she lowers her gaze. “I wanted to tell you, you know, I thought you’d be glad to hear that finally, something nice happened but-“

“I was scared to talk to you.” The silence of the empty hallway punctuates the heavy one between them. All he hears for a while is the clicking of Lydia’s heels, and every single one sounds like a bombshell. He swallows, squeezes his eyes shut for a heartbeat. “I didn’t think-“

“I would love you any longer after what happened to Donovan?” Lydia asks softly.

Stiles nods slowly. “Scott told you.”

Lydia is quiet for another long moment. “He just said you killed him.” She stiffens, her steps faltering momentarily. They slow down as her grip on his arm tightens even further. She holds onto him with both hands now. Her voice shakes when she continues, “I don’t believe that’s true.” _Please, tell me I’m right. Tell me you’re not a killer_. “When I asked him what happened, he said it’s not his story to tell.” Her bright eyes are fixed on nothing.

Stiles slows down as well. A thought crosses his mind, short and quiet and more spiteful than he expected it to be. _Can’t you see?_ She should, shouldn’t she? As a banshee? But his spitefulness dies rather quickly, and he turns his head away worried she might see the burn of anger dying. “He chased me up a scaffolding,” Stiles says after another moment of silence. His voice is barely louder than a breath, but Lydia heard him regardless and fixes her gaze on the left side of his face. “Halfway up, he grabbed my leg. I couldn’t get free.” Again, the story gets easier to tell, every word slipping past his lips without a chance to stop, without a chance to think better about it. “So, I hoped- I was _sure_ I have a better chance at surviving when I bring the whole scaffolding down.” A shudder runs through him, and he squeezes his eyes shut. Lydia halts, holding on to Stiles, turning him. He keeps his eyes shut, unable to look at her, unable to push the memory away. “I didn’t think clearly. When I pulled the pin- I-I- the scaffolding came crashing down. But only on one side. Donovan fell with it and then- then-“ Stiles licks his lips, opens his eyes as Lydia cups his cheeks with her hands, the touch so soft, her eyes so understanding. “The metal braces came down and one- one went right through him.”

Lydia lets out a breath. “Oh, _Stiles_.” Without hesitation, without thought, she pulls him down and into a hug. She doesn’t ask ‘ _why didn’t you tell me?_ ’. She doesn’t blame him. All she does is holding him and allowing him to cling onto her, to bury his face awkwardly at the crook of her neck, breathe her in. Despite everything, Lydia still feels safe, feels right, feels like home. She runs her hands over his back, soothingly, comfortingly. She even kisses his cheek, wipes away her lip-gloss with her thumb and a chuckle when Stiles pulls away. “Do you want to get out of here?”

“I don’t think your mom would be happy about us skipping school.”

Lydia glances around the still empty hallway before leaning closer conspiratorially. “It was her idea,” she whispers laughing quietly, acting perfectly normal. Neither does she pretend to be overly friendly, nor does she walk on eggshells around him. Everything is just as it used to be.

Stiles sighs in relief. "Yeah, let's get out of here."

“That still looks terrible,” Lydia informs him critically eyeing his formerly bandaged hand. They’re back at Jordan’s, their empty takeout boxes standing on the table next to them, and Lydia insisted on seeing his hand for herself. Most of it has healed already. The dark welts the roots left behind have become much paler. His knuckles, however, are still scraped and bruised and started bleeding again when Lydia gently removed the bandage. With a sigh, she grabs the wet towel and pulls his hand closer. “Do you feel any different?” She asks carefully removing the few droplets of fresh blood.

Stiles massages his temple. “I’m more exhausted than usual if that’s what you’re asking.”

Lydia shoots him a look, then shakes her head.

In spite of Theo’s threat, he’s told her everything. To his surprise, his composure broke after the second time she brought up the fact that Hayden and Corey sat in the cafeteria with him, both looking extremely alive and healthy and not at all how walking corpses should look like. So, he told her about the deal he struck with Theo, about how he saved his dad’s life, about how he brought back the chimeras, about the nemeton trying to tear off his hand, the feeling that came along with it, the blackmail, Donovan being back and finished with yesterday’s little incident at the communication towers. She listened very quietly, kept her questions for later – questions Stiles didn’t have an answer to – and nibbled on her tuna sandwich.

“You’ve been connected to the nemeton ever since that ritual,” Lydia reminds him fishing a new bandage out of the first-aid kit she found in the bathroom under the sink. “And you dreamed about the exact same thing happening, remember?”

Of course, he does. It’s not as if the thought hasn’t crossed his mind. 

Lydia purses her lips in contemplation. “Maybe we should talk to someone who knows about all of this.”

Stiles draws his eyebrows together. Unless she’s considering reading the Bestiary as talking to someone knowing everything there is to know about the supernatural, they don’t really have a anybody to go to. “We’re not asking Deaton,” he says wincing when she wraps the bandage over his knuckles.

“No, we’re not.”

“We’re not?” Just because Stiles doesn’t want to talk to Deaton, doesn’t mean Lydia actually agrees with him.

“No.” She tightens, then fastens the bandage carefully. “I’m thinking about Satomi. She said she would help us.”

Stiles must’ve misunderstood her. Satomi? She wants to go to Satomi? They don’t know anything about her aside from the fact that she’s an alpha and that, apparently, she hasn’t aged since she met Noshiko during the Second World War. Which does speak of a lot of power, and although her Buddhist ways help her stay under perfect control, it doesn’t mean she has the patience to be dragged into a lethal mess that’s not happening on her territory.

“Technically, it was Brett who said he would help us.”

Lydia lets out a long sigh. “Then we ask Brett if he can help us. You have his number, right?”

Liam is going to be ecstatic if he drags Brett into this. No matter their fleeting peace during the Deadpool, he doubts these two will be thrilled to see each other. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”

“Excuse me?” Lydia narrows her eyes at him, a single finger pointed at his face. “You found your way to the nemeton, probably ordered that it hides and-“ Her voice gets louder by the second. She makes it sound as if him not wanting to figure out what’s up with the nemeton’s attack is much worse than that shadow creature running around possibly killing people. If that is the case, Lydia desperately needs to straighten out her priorities.

Stiles raises his hands. “Okay, how about we wait a few more days. We don’t have to make everyone worry over nothing.”

Lydia purses her lips; her expression turns positively venomous.

“Okay, _fine_.” Stiles is too mentally exhausted to discuss this or even argue with her. If she wants him to call Brett, he will. Eventually. But not now. “First, let’s check the communication towers.” After all, there’s a monster running loose in Beacon Hills. They have to figure out what’s up with that before Stiles has the nerve to figure out what’s going on with him – or if there even _is_ anything going on with him. Either way, that thing is most definitively a lot more dangerous and lethal than Stiles could ever be. It’s not like being able to find the nemeton can lead to people’s demise. In fact, it led to people being resurrected. So, that’s a good thing.

“I can’t believe you've just said that.” Lydia stares at him with wide eyes.

“Said what?”

“You really want to go back there?” She asks twirling a strand of hair around her finger and drawing her eyebrows together. “What if we run into that thing?”

Stiles is already on his feet, his mind set on going back there with or without her. “I don’t know, scream at it?”

“This is a terrible idea.”

“You said that around hundred-thousand times on our way here."

Lydia grabs his hand. “We’re going to get lost in here.” She points her flashlight in the darkness of the tunnels ahead of them while Stiles is swiping his blacklight back and forth. He took it with him on a whim, and his instincts were right. It makes some odd shadowy prints on the floor visible to them which they have been following for at least half an hour now. 

“Don’t worry,” Stiles mutters belatedly, eyes following the blue beam of his flashlight, “if everything else fails, I’ll try to find the nemeton again. That should lead us out of here.”

“I can help too.”

Lydia whips her head around with a quiet gasp. The tips of her hair graze Stiles’ face precariously close to his right eye.

But that’s the least of his problems. “I don’t need your help.” Furthermore, Stiles doesn’t want it. Not now. Not before this thing is settled between them. _You don’t know what he really thinks about you_. Theo’s words crawl back to the forefront of his mind, a cruel reminder about his current reality, as Stiles straightens up again, carefully avoiding looking in Scott’s general direction. He doesn’t want to see the disappointed expression. He doesn’t want to talk to him before he knows- before he knows what exactly? _You deserve to know the truth_. His knuckles turn white as he curls his fingers around the flashlight. A sudden burst of anger makes it almost impossible not to lash out at the stupid metal pipes next to his head.

Scott steps closer.

Lydia, Stiles notices when he chances a glance in her, stares into the dark distance of the tunnels – eyes narrowed and jaw a tense line. But her expression quickly changes; her eyes widening after spotting something. “Stiles,” she breathes grabbing his wrist to point the black light to the floor in front of the entrance to another junction of the tunnels. “Look.” Before he can react, however, she has pulled the blacklight from his grip and walks towards what looks like writing on the ground.

Furrowing his brows, Stiles turns fully around and follows her.

Shadows are whisking over the stone, slow and steady as if a small fire burns underneath. Within these shadows, the blacklight makes two words visible. _Damnatio Memoriae._

“Condemnation of memory,” Stiles whispers furrowing his brows. _What the hell_? Memory. _Memory_. The only way to have a memory is when something has already happened. This isn’t new. How can this not be new? It doesn't make any sense. Theo says they're still studying chimeras. He said that he and Donovan were the only ones who survived. Unless they had only a partial success before. Unless they- it doesn't add up. It doesn't fucking add up.

Scott looks at him. “What?”

“That thing that Liam, Hayden and I saw yesterday,” Stiles explains running his fingers through his hair with a scowl, “the Dread Doctors must’ve either created it before-“

Lydia sucks in a breath. “Or they resurrected it.”

 _Oh_ , that's why she's the smart one. Of course. They resurrected this thing. They just needed a body which can withstand the power of this creature, which is compatible with whatever this thing is. But who? And what exactly is this creature supposed to be? 

“Wait- what does that-“

A gasp of pain from Lydia interrupts Scott mid-sentence. She presses a hand to the nape of her neck. Tears and panic spring into her eyes, bright and without warning. Helplessly, she reaches for Stiles and he catches her when she stumbles and falls, suddenly losing all control over her limbs like a puppet whose strings have been cut. She cries out when she falls into his arms, when Stiles’ legs don’t support them. He stumbles backwards, hoping for a second that Scott might catch them both, but when he glances in his direction, Scott is in the middle of slamming to the ground without a chance to stop it as well.

 _Fuck_.

Stiles pulls Lydia close and wraps one arm tightly around her. With the other, he fumbles for support. If he didn’t have to use his already damaged hand, he probably could’ve grabbed one of the pipes. Like this, Stiles only manages to soften the fall by allowing himself to slam against the wall with his shoulder. He grunts when he hits the hard unforgiving stone with a thud. A sharp pain shoots through his shoulders and arm, but he pushes it to the back of his mind and focuses on Lydia instead, “are you okay?”

She squeezes her eyes shut and shakes her head. “I can’t move.”

Stiles grinds his teeth, checks if Scott has fallen in a way that allows him to breathe. He has but his head is turned so he faces the way they've come from. Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Stiles locks eyes with Lydia again and forces an encouraging smile on his lips. “I know it sucks,” he says brushing a strand of hair out of her face, “but it’ll wear off and you’re going to be as good as new.”

Her chuckle sounds a bit like a sob.

“And I’m going to hold you the whole time, I promise.”

“Well,” a familiar, almost bored sounding and momentarily disembodied voice says somewhere on his left, “that was much less exciting than I thought.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Corey and Tracy materialise out of thin air. The latter smirks at him in the most condescending way possible. She even wiggles her claws at him causing his temper to flare up instantly. “You wanna threaten me?” Stiles snaps curling his free hand into a tight fist, nails biting into the bandage, knuckles burning with new pain. “You can be lucky I didn’t lead your alpha off a cliff. You’d still be rotting in the middle of nowhere.”

Corey shoots Tracy a pleading look but Stiles’ words have wiped the smirk right off her face, and she rushes towards him with a snarl. Josh jumps over Stiles’ legs, wraps an arm around her waist and effectively stops her from doing something stupid. She bares her fangs at Stiles yet doesn't struggle against her packmate's grip. _Pack_. Jesus fucking Christ. They really are a pack. The realisation douses his anger, and Stiles shakes his head. It’s still hard to believe, even when he watches the three chimeras retreat from the scene. It’s so fucking _bizarre_. He saw Corey and Hayden- Hayden. Where is Hayden? Does Theo allow her to stay with his sister to avoid trouble? Most definitively. Stiles doubts he wants to have the police on his ass.

“What did you do?” Lydia asks in a high voice.

Theo hops off the ledge looking down at her with a particular unfriendly expression. “Found some new friends.”

Stiles curls his arm protectively around her.

The smirk slipping on Theo's lips is nothing if not condescending. “I don’t take rejection very well,” he says shrugging half-heartedly as he walks towards Scott. The hatred is palpable when he unceremoniously turns him over with his foot. He looks down at him, contempt written all over his face when he bares his teeth in a snarl. They’re human teeth. For now. “You’re going to leave here thinking that you need to worry about me.” Theo grins again but it looks like he’s readier to strike than ever. “But you’re wrong. Stiles and I have this under control, don’t we, Stiles?”

His rebuttal would be as instant as insulting if he weren’t dealing with a paralysed and terrified Lydia right now. “Of course,” Stiles says through his teeth instead, holding his gaze for as long as it lasts.

“See, Scott? We’re gonna go back to school and pretend like we’re normal teenagers, but at night, we’re going to be fighting for our lives.”

Stiles swallows. “What is it?”

Theo turns to look at him again. “It’s not a chimera.”

“But it’s just a kid underneath,” Scott says looking up at Theo with wide eyes. His tolerance to being paralysed luckily is a lot higher than Lydia's. Probably because he knows how it feels. “Someone like-“

From one moment to the next, Theo brings his foot down breaking Scott’s nose with a horrendous crack. He cries out in pain, his body probably going crazy with the instinct to grab his face despite being unable to.

Lydia whimpers quietly in his lap.

“He’ll heal,” Stiles whispers adjusting her head a bit, so she lies more comfortable on his thigh. But his eyes never leave Theo, and he watches with a weird, distanced feeling as he rolls Scott around again sneering as he does so.

When Theo looks back at him, the corners of his mouth turn down, and there's a certain, heavy sadness lingering in his blue eyes. The expression on his face has turned sour, wrong. It's impossible to tell if it's fake or a hundred percent real. “You can’t stay away, can you?” Theo asks cocking his head to the side. It almost sounds like he wished, like he _really_ wanted for Stiles to stay away this time. But from what? The tunnel? The truth? Theo? 

“I’m not here because of you.” Stiles glances at Lydia, who looks up at him with trembling lips. He'd rather have them switch places. He can't remember the last time she looked this afraid. But he understands. Theo is unpredictable, she is paralysed from the neck down and the last time they've met, it didn't exactly end well for her.

“That's not what I'm talking about.” Theo briefly glances in Scott's direction, his eyes hardening even further. 

Stiles swallows. "He followed me," he whispers, an unwelcome fear bubbling up inside of him. They're on uneven footing now. Even if Theo said that he cares about him, something has clearly changed in their relationship ever since the truth was laid bare between them. But Stiles did what Theo wanted him to, didn't he? He chose his dad. He would always choose his dad. And maybe that's the problem. Maybe that's why it's not enough. 

Theo crouches down next to him, completely disregarding Lydia’s presence as he curls his fingers around Stiles’ chin. No matter how soft the touch, dread pools in Stiles’ stomach regardless. The feeling that something bad is about to happen only strengthens when Theo’s hand slips away from his chin and towards his neck. Claws press against his nape. No. No. _No._ Theo has never done this before; he hasn’t even heard of it before he watched Scott do this to Corey mere days ago. 

Stiles squirms and grabs Theo's arm. “Don't-“ His voice cracks. His throat closes and the words get stuck. 

“I don’t wanna do this,” Theo breathes brushing his other hand in a calming matter over his cheek. "Just stay still. It'll be okay." It’s conflicting and terrible and panic-inducing. "I'll be here for you." This is wrong, even if it feels good, even if it feels so soft, and- and like he really cares, like he really doesn't want to do this. "I'll always be here for you." 

Stiles digs his fingers into his arm, skin warm and hard underneath his fingertips, hoping against hope that he's not going to go through with this. There's too much risk involved, too much that can go wrong. Theo doesn't have any idea how badly this can go. If something happens, if something goes wrong- "Please," he whispers, voice shaking and he lets go of Lydia, curls his fingers into the fabric of his t-shirt. "My dad... I'm begging you-" 

“Theo,” Lydia calls in alarm.

“He needs to know, Lydia.” Theo places his free hand over her mouth, presses down to make sure she won’t be able to scream. When he continues talking, his voice turns icy, “he needs to know what Scott truly thinks about him.”

A last, feeble attempt to stop him slips past Stiles' lips, “please don’t.”

But Theo, finally having reached the end of his patience, buries his claws in the back of his neck.


	6. changes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You are all so sweet. My heart can handle it. Thank you all so much for your comments and the kudos. I love every single one. <3

The pain is excruciating, all-encompassing. A fire, yet worse. His skull feels like it's splitting, tearing, splintering, as if it's trying to make room for the memories forcing their way into his mind. His vision blurs. Pictures flicker in his view. Still lives without any context. Silence. Mouths unmoving. Everything swims together, becomes a single mosaic of memories not belonging to him.

Stiles sees himself staring back, spiteful and brimming with anger. But he doesn’t quite _look_ like himself. He’s different, strange, not the same person he notices when he sees in the mirror. If he looked like that, Stiles might actually like himself a bit more than he does now. He's so confident, strangely enough. The image shifts. Scott lying on the ground. Scott dead. Bloody. Half shifted.

Stiles tries to fight, to push the memories back. The more he struggles, the worse the pain becomes - and the panic. His fingers twitch around Theo's arm. His face ever so slowly melts away, vanishes in the clouds of the other boy's memories. Noises and voices join the pictures now, becoming louder and louder, make more sense. At first, the words are an indistinguishable rumble; a sound that Stiles can identify as a car engine. The voices are incoherent until the pictures settle on a street and a car and Scott next to him.

Stiles has the strange feeling of watching a movie.

“Hey, what did you wanna talk to me about?”

His vision shifts from the street to Scott. He’s detached from his own body and from the one moving, detached from the mind he’s in. Stiles can’t feel what Theo felt, just see what he saw, listen to what he’s heard, to what he’s said – to the truth, to what Scott thinks happened between the night Donovan died.

“It can wait.” The words, albeit seemingly coming from him, aren’t formed by his mouth. It’s like he’s floating in the consciousness of somebody else, strapped to a chair and imprisoned in an impenetrable bubble.

“If something’s wrong, you-you- you should tell me,” Scott says looking at Theo in desperation. “We’ve all got to start talking to each other again.”

Stiles grinds his teeth. _Fucking hypocrite_. The memory flickers as his own thought strengthens, and the pain returns. Someone says something he can’t make out – he can’t even tell if it’s inside the memory or happening around it. Theo’s flickering into view. His lips are moving. There’s a hand on his cheek. It shifts from his face, covers his eyes. The darkness helps him returning to the memory, and when the pain has vanished completely, he sees Scott holding the wrench.

That’s why he had it. Theo gave it to him. _Of course_.

“Dropped it when?” Scott asks.

“When he killed Donovan.” Silence follows the statement. A long, far too long stretch of silence.

Eventually, staring at him in disbelief, Scott asks, “what are you talking about?”

“You know he hurt his shoulder, right? You smelled the blood.”

“That was the jeep,” Scott says, but Stiles can hear in his voice that he’s already starting to lose his faith, that he’s starting to believe the lie Theo is about to tell him. “He said the jeep’s hood fell on him.” Who told him that? Did he eavesdrop when he talked to Malia in the kitchen that one time? She always monitored his heartbeat. He knows she did. The way she watched him intently made that clear. So, it was steady and they both believed him. 

Maybe it's his own fault. 

“No, no, no. That was _Donovan_.” So far, everything about this story is correct. “He went after Stiles at the library.” Theo looks at Scott almost more than at the street in front of him. “I only _saw_ the end of it.” Yes, yes, he did. He saw the scaffolding coming down. “And when I saw what Stiles was doing I-I couldn’t stop him.”

 _Saw me do what_?

A sharp pain returns. The memory flickers again. Stiles takes a deep breath, tries to focus on what he’s supposed to see. He needs to know. He needs to-

“Tell me,” Scott demands. 

For a very long moment, Theo only stares at Scott. Houses are passing fast, too fast for anybody to take their eyes off the road. Eventually, he forces his attention away and back to the traffic. “I saw Donovan go down.” His vision blurs almost as if tears have sprung into Theo’s eyes, and his voice is breaking when he continues, speaking so fast his words tumble over each other, “Stiles _hit_ him.” Theo’s gaze jumps around constantly. It’s hard, almost impossible to follow this memory. There’s too much information all at once. “And then he just- he just kept hitting him.”

Scott’s eyes widen, and he turns away. Turns to look out of the window.

 _Say you don’t believe him_. But he does. Stiles knows he does. This has already happened. The consequences of this lie have already played out.

Like Theo wanted them to.

“Maybe it was because he—he threatened to kill his dad,” Theo struggles to find the right words, struggles to find excuses for a scenario that never happened this way. “Or maybe Stiles thought he had to keep going to defend himself. But he just- he kept hitting him.”

“That’s not possible.”

But Theo remains relentless. “He crushed that kid’s skull. I heard it cracking, and- and-“ his struggle for words becomes worse – did he wing it? Did he made that story up on the spot? – as do his crocodile tears- “and splintering. By the time I pulled Stiles off him, half of Donovan’s head was caved in.” But Stiles' human. He’s _human_. That’s not possible. Scott can’t have believed this story. “It didn’t even look real.”

He did, tho. _He did_.

“I kept telling myself that it was self-defence. It _was_ self-defence but-“ Theo breaks off, and two rapid heartbeats are the only things Stiles hears for a few, ever so long seconds. “Scott, I’m sorry. I’ve never seen anything like it, and I’ve never seen anyone that angry.” Another stretch of silence only filled with two fast heartbeats; a silence in which Stiles naively hopes Scott calls Theo out on his bullshit.

He doesn’t, didn’t, never will.

Without warning, Stiles is torn from the memory and plunged into a reality full of pain. His head still feels as if someone tries to rip it open from neck up. The pain makes him feel dizzy. Light dances behind his eyes. Panic and nausea make it impossible to form a coherent thought. He’s trying to breathe, trying to get it under control but the pain and anger and panic and confusion- it's too much. He can’t- he- something is wrong. Something’s must’ve gone wrong. The pain in his head is about to burst.

“Stiles?” Theo's voice slices through the chaos in his head. “Stiles.” Again, a bit louder this time. “You’re okay.”

The words snap him out or his panic – _okay_ , a voice in the back of his mind seethes – and Stiles finally sucks in a deep breath. “Okay,” he snaps forcing his eyes open despite the pain furiously burning in his temples and neck and back of his head. Theo’s features slowly become less blurry, almost as if his brain needs a second to fully return to the present. “ _Okay_ ,” Stiles repeats using his hold on Theo’s shirt to yank him closer, and for the briefest of seconds, it looks as if fear clouds the blue eyes staring back at him. “You better hope you’re wrong about the nemeton because if I have any semblance of power, you’ll be the first I try it out on.”

When he shoves Theo away, the fucking asshole is already grinning again. “I suppose I deserve that.” Almost nonchalantly, he smooths out his t-shirt. “At least you know the truth now.”

 _“_ You lied,” Stiles hisses lowering his head to check on Lydia, her eyes roaming over his features with a certain kind of urgency. Now that his nerves have settled a bit, he brings himself to smile again. “Nothing that a pain killer can’t handle,” he tells her, waits until relief eases the creases between her brows, and leans his head against the cool pipes.

Theo shakes his head.

“Oh, _what_?” Stiles asks. “Nothing you told him is true. You said that to get rid of me.”

“If I’d wanted to get rid of you, I would’ve told your father this story,” Theo replies crossing his arms over his thighs. His eyes briefly dart to Lydia. He draws his eyebrows together, contemplating something for far too long before he nods. “Without me,” Theo continues, “you’d still be licking his boots. You know the truth now.”

Stiles' stomach contorts painfully, and his gaze darts to Scott, who’s still lying a few feet away, unmoving, silent. “You lied.”

“He never questioned it.”

“You _still_ lied,” Stiles insists although his voice has lost any of its heat. _That’s not possible_ was Scott’s last resistance but Stiles remembers his tone. At this point, he started believing Theo’s bullshit story already. “You ruined _everything_.” He swallows and lowers his eyes, unable to look at Theo any longer – to look the truth in the face.

Theo shakes his head. “You hate me now, but you’ll get it eventually.”

Stiles freezes, gaze darting back up to stare at Theo. He said these exact words before but now, _now_ they finally make sense. This isn’t just something Theo came up with on a whim, this isn’t something Theo said to convince him. He’s planned this. He’s planned everything. From the very beginning, it’s never been about Scott’s power. It’s been about getting rid of him. The alpha spark was always just a bonus. “You’re a fucking bastard.”

“I never stated otherwise.” Theo straightens, brushes invisible dust off his pants and whistles. A second later, Corey, Josh, and Tracy reappear. Of course, he kept them around like they’re his fucking dogs. “Corey, Josh, bring them back to the car.” Theo nods in Stiles’ and Lydia’s direction before turning away.

Stiles grinds his teeth. “I don’t need your help.”

Again, Theo lets him know with a single look that he’s about to cross an invisible line he should rather stay away from. “As long as Donovan’s out there, you’re not going to go unsupervised anywhere.” Theo snaps his fingers and points at Lydia. “Josh.”

Josh tiptoes around his alpha and crouches down in front of Stiles and Lydia. “I’m just-" he mutters avoiding everyone’s eyes, “I’m just gonna, like, pick you up.” Clearing his throat awkwardly, Josh slips his arms underneath Lydia’s legs and back, hoisting her up without any problem. When he steps away, Josh looks almost more uncertain than Lydia does.

Stiles grabs one of the pipes, pulls himself back onto wobbly legs. Although he craves to tell Theo that he can carry Lydia back to the car by himself, the pain in his head gets impossibly worse again the second he stands. The dizziness slams into him like a wrecking ball at his first step, and he falls straight into Theo’s arms.

“Okay,” he says sounding a bit less exasperated than he probably intended to, “change of plans.”

“No,” Stiles mumbles trying to push himself away from Theo despite knowing that he won’t be able to walk a straight line no matter how much he’d like to.

Without a word, Theo wraps an arm around his waist, pulls Stiles’ over his own shoulder, ignoring any and all complaints, and turns to Corey and Tracy, “get Hayden. We have a lot to talk about when I’m back.”

“What about him?” Tracy asks.

Theo turns around narrowing his eyes at Scott. Stiles cranes his neck to look at him as well. There's nothing to gain from it. Nothing that would change what Theo showed him. Scott considers him a ruthless killer, and no wide, panicked eyes, no bloody face, no pleadingly whispered ‘Stiles' is going to change that.

“He can rot down here for all I care.”

“And you’re sure what you saw-”

Stiles drops his fork on the table and crosses his arms over his chest. “Yes, I’m sure.” After telling Lydia, he didn't know if he had the energy to tell the story twice more, but in the end, he recited it to his dad, who’d become oddly quiet and asked him what he wanted to do about that, and he told it Jordan as well. This story, however, doesn’t get easier to tell. It doesn’t stop hurting because the more he thinks about it, the more he says it out loud, makes it real, the worse it gets.

He’s losing Scott, lost him already, and he can’t say anything to change the way Scott thinks about him. Stiles isn’t even sure he wants to.

“Okay,” Jordan says twisting and turning his fork in his bowl of spaghetti Bolognese without actually eating anything. “So, are you-“

“I don’t wanna talk about it.”

Jordan clears his throat. “Okay.”

Silence falls between them, heavy and unwelcome. Stiles stares at his half-eaten plate. After a moment, he grabs his fork again and stabs into the tiny mound of noodles with a sigh. “They could use a bit more salt,” he notes licking his lips.

“I think they’re fine.” Jordan’s response is almost a bit too polite. Out of habit, Stiles prepared their dinner with an alternative to minced meat. His father complains every time Stiles cuts it out, he honestly doubts Jordan is into it. Which is fine. It’s not like Jordan needs to watch his health. He’s not only young and undeniably fit, he’s also supernatural. If he lived off nothing but pizza and potato chips, he’d most definitively be perfectly fine.

“Oh. Okay.” Another silence. All the easiness he’s felt between them over the weekend seems to be completely eradicated. Every thought feels like gum, stretching endlessly, stretching so slowly. They have so much to talk about and yet not a single word of importance slips past his lips.

“Please, talk to me.”

“There isn’t much to talk about.”

“Stiles-“

He slams his hands on the table, unable to keep the sudden, terrible burst of anger in check. “My dad almost died, my best friend thinks I’m a murderer, there’s a giant beast running around Beacon Hills.” Despite being aware that nothing is Jordan’s fault, Stiles can’t stop himself from yelling at him. He’s just so fucking angry and his head hurts like hell and he’s _so fucking done_ with this town. “Donovan is probably still trying to kill me and the nemeton attempted to rip my hand off. That all happened within four days, so excuse me if I’m trying to wrap my head around that instead of talking in circles.”

Jordan pushes his plate away and crosses his arms over the table. His expression is unchangingly calm. “Better?”

Stiles collapses onto his chair. “No.”

Returning to his dinner, Jordan quirks a single brow. “Bottling everything up won’t get you anywhere.”

“I know,” Stiles whines and pulls his plate back towards him. “It’s just so much going on. I don’t even know where to start.” Scowling, he twists the spaghetti with his fork and unceremoniously shoves them into his mouth. What the fuck is it with Jordan? Stiles doesn’t understand what’s happening. How is the guy so _nice_ while Stiles acts like an absolute prat? It doesn’t make any sense. He should be telling him off for being such an asshole, not smile at him or let him get away with everything.

Jordan pokes his food for a second, then, without looking at him, he says, “maybe you shouldn't give a shit about what Scott thinks.”

Stiles swallows heavily unable to tear his gaze away from Jordan. Where is that coming from? “I thought- I thought you like him?”

“My loyalties lie elsewhere.”

Stiles gapes at him. _What the fuck_ is going on with the guy? Loyalties? Nobody even spoke about-

Jordan pushes away from the table, face expressionless and motions oddly stiff like he isn’t used to his body quite yet. Oh. _Oh._ That has happened before. Stiles has seen this happening before, and it is what he hoped wouldn’t happen again while he’s staying over. After all, they have no fucking clue if that thing is good or bad or something completely different.

Heart leaping into his throat, Stiles jumps to his feet. “What’s going on? Who _are_ you?”

The thing focuses his empty stare on him. “Cerberus,” it says and turns towards the door.

 _Cerberus?_ That is either a very misleading name or Stiles faces a really big problem right now. He hopes it’s the former because dealing with a three-headed hellhound doesn’t sit well with him. Not at all. “Wait,” Stiles says before Cerberus reaches the door. To his utter surprise, it stops walking and looks at him over its shoulder. “Jordan wouldn’t want me to be alone.” Stiles honestly doesn’t know what the _fuck_ possessed him to say that. That thing turned over his jeep while he was still inside. Stiles doubts very much it cares about him.

“That is true.”

Okay, what now? It _agrees_ with him? What parallel universe did he stumble into that this is making sense? This shouldn't be happening. It shouldn't even be possible. Then again, it spoke to his father as well. It even seems to like his father - at least enough not to hurt him after taking the body from the morgue. Maybe that's it. Maybe it is loyal to the sheriff. It would explain this fuckery for sure. 

Stiles bites the inside of his cheek, takes a deep breath. “And you? Do you want to hurt me?”

“No,” Cerberus replies after a short pause, “quite the opposite.” Now that’s hard to believe after what happened in front of Deaton's clinic.

“I want to come with you.” He shouldn’t be this pushy, Stiles is aware of that, but he can’t stop. It talks to him, he _has_ to figure out what’s going on.

Cerberus sizes him up. “You can’t defend yourself yet.”

 _Yet_. Yet? What is that supposed to mean? Is it referring to Stiles asking Jordan to train him? Because, yeah, that’s technically true. He can’t fight like that. “I know how to use a gun.”

“Your guns won’t be of use.”

Stiles sets his jaw feeling surprisingly stubborn and relentless, feeling like he used to do whenever he was in the car with his dad and somebody called him to a crime scene. He wants to _help_ ; he wants to figure shit out. He’s far too useful to be left on the sidelines. “I want to come with you,” he demands curling his hands into fists at his sides. If he stomps his feet, maybe he will pass as an overgrown toddler.

Cerberus’ lips twitch, almost as if he’s about to crack a smile. “As you wish, but I recommend staying behind me.”

Oh, Stiles is not about to get in his path ever again.

When Cerberus stops in front of the Beacon Hills High, Stiles is neither surprised nor particularly thrilled. Entering the school at night is bound to end in a catastrophe more often than not. After everything that has happened here, it’s a miracle that the doors remain open after school is over _and_ that there’s zero security here. Although security probably doesn’t help against supernatural creatures. Neither do locked doors, if he thinks about it. Maybe things change now that Natalie is in charge; which is still a bit odd to think about it. Now he’s on first-name terms with the new principal.

But that doesn’t really matter right now.

Stiles speeds up to walk next to Cerberus, who briefly glances at him out of the corner of its eye. Sitting next to it in the car was rather intimidating, so he ground his teeth to keep himself from saying something that could potentially anger it. Now, with a bit of distance, Stiles’ curiosity is stronger than his worry. “Do you sense a dead chimera?”

“A dying one.”

Stiles has so many questions. “How?” Maybe Cerberus is similar to a banshee, or maybe its connection to the nemeton helps it finding dead and dying creatures or maybe, if it actually is a hellhound, it can sense death by itself. There are so many possibilities, so many options and Stiles can’t fathom what other powers it might possess. Knowing its name, he has a starting point. Perhaps he can help Jordan, and even if he can’t, Jordan at least knows what’s going on with him.

“Time and place, master.”

Those words stun him completely into silence. What? _What_? What the hell did it call him? _Master_? The fuck- a loud roar cuts through the silence and his thoughts; a roar Stiles would recognise anywhere after only hearing it once. It’s that monster he saw with Hayden and Liam. Is _that_ dying or did it kill somebody else? He’d definitively prefer the former. However, a problem solving itself in Beacon Hills? That’s even more unlikely than Lydia getting anything less than an A on a test.

Cerberus sprints towards the school. It has passed the busses before Stiles even starts running. _Fucking_ hell, the guy is fast. He’s definitively faster than the average werewolf. At this rate, Stiles is never going to catch up to it.

So much for track being useful.

Another roar echoes over the empty parking lot. _Shit_. _Shit. Shit._ Stiles speeds up, his legs and muscles hating every single step he takes. He has to get to Jordan. That creature is huge. What if something happens to him? What if-?

Stiles crashes into something as solid as a stonewall that appeared out of nowhere. Pain echoes through his body on impact. A moment later, he slams to the hard asphalt with a yelp. His elbow takes most of the fall, a feeling momentarily worse than having Theo forcing his memories into him, and he squeezes his eyes shut, breathes through the pain. _“Fuck."_ He grabs his elbow with a wince.

“Do I have to get a restraining order?”

Stiles snaps his eyes open to find a rather unamused Theo staring back at him. “What the hell are you doing at school?”

“I could ask you the same thing.” Theo offers him a hand, and Stiles grabs it. Both feel like very out of this world gestures, yet they unanimously decide not to mention it.

“Theo,” Tracy urges, “we have to go.”

He merely glances at her. “You shouldn’t be here.” Again, Stiles has the distinct feeling that Theo is worried, that he cares. It’s odd and certainly a bit disconcerting. Believing Theo is a goal-driven sociopath who uses everything and everyone to get to wherever he wants to get is so much easier than believing that he gives a shit about people outside of how useful they are to his cause.

Stiles carefully checks his elbow. “I really don’t have time for you right now.” He passes Theo without another word, walking at first, then dashing towards the entrance as fast as he can. Coach might be proud of him if he ever hears about how quickly Stiles makes it inside the school despite his burning legs. He crashes rather disgracefully into the door to open it without losing his momentum then careens towards the audible crash sounding a lot as if something heavy was flung into the lockers.

_Please, don’t be Jordan. Please, don’t Jordan._

Sliding around a corner, Stiles finds himself within grabbing distance of a very large, super black and highly pissed of creature. “Oh my-" the words get stuck in his throat when it shows a row of too sharp teeth. His feet are rooted to the spot, completely useless despite every fibre of his body demanding that he should run away _right now_. It raises its claws, ready to tear his throat out – there’s mercury at the corner of its mouth, Stiles realises, because clearly that's his biggest concern – and slashes at him.

The claws never connect. Instead, someone spins him around, arms tight around his waist, and heat, as well as fire, surround him like a protective cocoon. There’s _fire_ right in front of his eyes and face. It’s so close it should be touching him, it should be burning the skin off his bones yet it’s not. It’s _not._ That’s impossible. That shouldn’t be happening. That- it- what the _fuck_ is going on?

“I will let go of you,” Cerberus tells him in a calm voice, “please, stay on the ground.”

Stiles nods, unable to speak, unable to think. Only a moment later, the arms vanish, as does the fire, and he collapses onto the ground. The heat remains prominent, fire hovering mere inches over his back. He hears footsteps, sees Theo enter the hallway followed by Tracy. While the latter stares at the beast with an open mouth, Theo's eyes are transfixed on him – even as the creature howls in agony, his gaze never leaves Stiles', and he wonders what he sees right now, what he thinks. Because his face is impossible to read.

The creature's howl turns into a scream of pain causing Stiles to crane his neck. The high-pitched screaming is coming from a teenage girl with bright blonde hair. She’s not burning. She’s holding her head, face a grotesque mask of agony, back arched in an impossible way. And she’s still screaming.

Until she’s not anymore. With a wet sound, something sharp and metal pierces right through her heart. Despite the silence, Stiles’ ears are still ringing when she collapses on the spot.

“Failure,” a distorted voice announces.

Stiles scrambles around on hands and knees to finally get a good look at the real versions of the Dread Doctors. He’s only ever seen them on the book cover. In Eichen, he's been far too afraid to look at them. But before he’s fully turned around, much less gotten to his feet, Theo slides to a stop directly in front of him blocking most of his view. It’s hard to tell if it’s unintentional, or if he tries to hide him from the Dread Doctors. Which is a ridiculous thought. He doesn't have a reason to do that.

Tracy slips past him, claws at the ready. Theo lets her, doesn’t bother to look at her, or tell her to stop when she readies herself for an attack – one that most certainly won’t lead to success. Neither her claws nor her venom will get through their freaky clothing. But she doesn’t even make it that far. Her hit is blocked by one of the doctors who tosses her into the wall of lockers without as much as moving an inch. She cries out and scrambles away from them holding her arm.

Theo steps forward, not giving her a second of his precious attention.

“Leave,” one of the Dread Doctors says. Most likely the one standing front and centre, who holds his cane more like a weapon than a walking stick.

Theo curls his hands into fists. “Where is he?”

A hand appears in front of Stiles’ face momentarily distracting him from what’s going on. Stiles stares at the orange glow emanating from the skin as if he’s seen a ghost, then up at Cerberus’ calm, neutral face and back to the fire dancing underneath its skin. It didn’t hurt him a moment ago. Why should it hurt him now? Despite that knowledge – he still remembers almost burning alive in his jeep – Stiles grabs its hand with a certain sense of unease.

“You already have your pack.”

Cerberus pulls him to his feet, eyes roaming over his face and body as if it’s checking for potential damage.

“It wasn’t enough. Look at my eyes. Do they look red to you? I’m not an alpha.” Theo sounds more like a petulant teenager demanding more pocket money from his parents than- Stiles widens his eyes. _Of course_. Theo is a chimera. He worked _with_ the Dread Doctors. Why hasn’t he made the connection sooner? Why is it only now, that he sees both parties interacting with each other, that he realises they've been working together? How could he be so fucking stupid?

“That is your own failure.”

Theo growls, anger causing him to go completely rigid. “Tell me where he _is_.”

A crackle of electricity is the only response he gets, and within the blink of an eye, the three cyberpunk psychos vanish into thin air.

Theo slams his fist into the locker nearest to him, leaving behind an impressive dent. Damn, someone’s _pissed_. 

Not that Stiles cares too much about it. “Who are you looking for?” He asks furrowing his brows.

“They’re running out of time,” Theo says it so quietly, it seems like he’s talking to himself instead of Stiles; his answer doesn’t make sense either. They’re running out of time to do _what_? Find a body for that thing to survive in? Valack says they’ve been working on this forever. Why would they be running out of time _now_? There’s definitively an abundance of people who are technically already a chimera in the world. Finding those won’t be their problem. But the girl... she wasn't listed as missing. She's never made it on the board like the others - and they found every single of the holes the chimeras have been buried in. 

Did they really make a desperate, haphazard decision with her? It seems so unlike everything else they have done. They always chose teenagers who don't have any parents, sometimes even a family that completely neglects them. Even Hayden fits into the category. Clarke loves her sister just as much as Stiles' dad loves him, that doesn't mean they're around much. If he had a second set of DNA, Stiles is pretty sure his face would've hung on that board as well. 

So, why this random girl? 

Theo bangs his fist against the locker once more, like an afterthought, before he spins around to look at Stiles. “You-“

Cerberus shifts to the left, completely blocking Stiles’ view. Most would consider it stupid to step into the path of a pissed off supernatural creature. Stiles doubts Cerberus worries too much about the things Theo could possibly do to him. “Would you like me to burn the body at the nemeton?”

Stiles blinks multiple times before he stares at the creature inhabiting Jordan's body. There are no more flames licking at his skin, glowing embers fill every crack in the skin instead, moving and shifting and breathing like living things. It’s a creature that could set him ablaze with the snap of its fingers. Why the _fuck_ is it asking him for permission to do anything? 

_Master_. The word comes back to him now. It called him master. Aside from the fact that nobody in their right mind would let Stiles be in charge of anything, this shift in personality doesn't make any sense at all. Not too long ago it almost killed him to make sure Josh burns at the nemeton and now this. Stiles has no clue what happened, what changed, what could even begin to explain this godforsaken mess in the first place. 

“What?” He asks eventually after realising that Cerberus patiently waits for a response.

“The chimera,” it replies pointing at the crumpled girl on the floor, “would you like me to burn it at the nemeton?”

Stiles stares at the girl. “I-" he swallows, shakes his head to shake the confusion off. “No. No, I don’t think that’s necessary.” She looks normal enough. No claws, no fangs, nothing. Just a girl that was stabbed through the heart by a maniac. “But... but maybe bring her to Melissa. She can... make sure, I guess.”

Cerberus nods, crouches down and gently picks the girl up. Her head rests against his shoulder. If not for the blood on her chest, one could mistake her for being asleep. “Jordan wouldn’t want you to be alone,” it reminds him with a disconcerting amount of patience. 

“Right.” Stiles briefly glances at Theo and almost recoils at the smile blooming on the other boy’s face. His eyes shine in a way that reminds Stiles of someone finding a hidden treasure they’ve been looking for far too long, and yet, despite almost giving up hope, they’ve found it regardless.

This doesn't bode well. Not at all.

Swallowing again, Stiles starts walking. Cerberus follows him dutifully.


	7. answers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're all so sweet. I don't deserve you <3

“You’re late!”

“Sorry, Coach, won’t happen again.”

Stiles whips his head around staring at Theo jogging towards him in clothes that are most definitive for exercise. _Great_. Seems like Coach really did push the date for late sign-up back a couple of days. Not that the guy actually knows who is on the team. He doesn’t care much either as long as they’re decent.

Letting out a sigh, Stiles returns to his lunges. “What are you doing here?” Although he’s pretty sure he knows the answer already.

“Donovan is still out there,” Theo says falling into line next to him.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “And you think he attacks me in the middle of track practise?”

“You think he wouldn’t?” Theo shoots back not without an air of foreboding. Sure, it’s Donovan. The guy wanted to attack him in front of the sheriff and other deputies, but- _okay_ , maybe, no but. Maybe Theo is right about this one. Donovan’s reaction after a stupid comment has already been excessively over the top. Perhaps he’s been underestimating the situation. Which is not usually something he does. There’s far too much going on in their lives right now.

Not that Stiles will admit any of this to Theo. The last thing he wants to do is agreeing with the guy. Knowing him, he’s going to read it completely wrong, and since he’s already impossible to discourage, that’s certainly not helping to get rid of him. Being an ass hadn’t done it, so being nice is most definitively going to make everything a lot worse. Theo’s like that mean rash Stiles gets every time his father buys the wrong fabric softener – he becomes more annoying the moment he decides to ignore him.

“You still think the nemeton tried to tear off your hand?” Theo asks shortly after Coach orders them to start with squats. An exercise the asshole excels in while Stiles’ legs are starting to complain. Neither cross country, nor lacrosse training has been nearly as exhausting as this semester’s track practise. Coach used to torture them once, in the beginning, to weed out those not motivated enough for the cause to win, and then everything was afterwards turned out to be a few drills as well as insults.

Which explains why they suck so bad.

Stiles tries to steady his breathing. “Yup.” His muscles really, really start to hate him. He can’t wait to begin training with Jordan tomorrow evening so that he’ll have sore and aching muscles in every part of his body. When lacrosse practise starts next week, he’s most definitively collapse into his bed straight after dinner – maybe he should stop with lacrosse. He doesn’t even care enough about it, and it gives him more time for research.

“After what happened yesterday, you still think-“

“Absolutely,” Stiles interrupts without a flicker of hesitation, shifting from squats to leg swings with more enthusiasm than strictly necessary. He hates squats.

Theo scoffs. “Because hellhounds usually take orders from teenagers.” Is this going to be a thing now? Theo coming to track practise and pestering him about the nemeton potentially doing something to him? This was supposed to be his safe space. This was supposed to be the designated time of his day during which he can think about _nothing_ at all. Running does have this effect on him. It clears his head more than lacrosse has ever done. Having Theo whisper all these things in his ear is going to drive him up the wall. All he wants is a bit of peace and quiet before he has to deal with figuring out how to tell Jordan about what happened yesterday as well as the rest of the bullshit going on.

Because there’s a lot to unpack. Starting from Theo’s cryptic ‘ _they’re running out of time’_ to whatever the hell is going on with Jordan and Cerberus. He should probably talk to Scott eventually as well. Or Liam. Now that everything’s out in the open, maybe he should explain why he kept the truth from him; not only to apologise but also to take the blame away from Hayden and put it on Theo instead. Where it belongs.

But before he can start to unpack all of that, Stiles needs to know one more thing. “How do you know Jordan is a hellhound?” He could be anything – a fire kitsune? A sorcerer? A phoenix? A dragon? Oh damn, please don’t let dragons be a real thing.

“Lydia figured it out,” Theo says casting him a look full of mock-surprise, “didn’t she tell _you_?” The way he says it makes it sound like Lydia went out of her way to tell him when in truth, he probably learned about it by chance. Maybe even the night he knocked her out. She was at the library after all.

Stiles curls his hands into fists, takes a deep breath and decides to just let it go. Theo wants to get under his skin. He’ll be stupid if he lets that happen.

Coach’s whistle ends the warmup, and they all gather near the bleachers. In typical fashion, he calls them slow and lazy – some things just aren’t allowed to change, ever – before he splits them into two groups and sends them off to both ends of the athletic field without explaining anything again. Stiles sticks close to Sydney, who happily chats about how she’s been running the last months in preparation for track. The only running he’s done was running away from or towards people as well as supernatural creatures trying to either murder him or his friends. Since explaining that would be kind of hard, he simply nods along.

Gabe twirls the stopwatch around his finger. “Are we supposed to clock time for the float again?”

Nolan shrugs. “Coach hasn’t said anything.”

“It’s Coach,” Stiles says nudging the start block, “we probably should clock everything we’re running.”

Theo stops next to him, way too close for comfort, and looks at the starting block as if he’s staring at something nightmares are made off. “What,” he asks slowly after a moment of silence, brushing against Stiles when he turns to the rest of the group, “are we supposed to do?”

“Four times 600m,” Gabe says still twirling the stopwatch around his finger, “float for 100m, then 400m in 70 seconds tops and another 100m float again.” Without waiting for Theo’s reaction, he starts jotting down their names on a piece of paper.

Sydney smiles. “I can give you a copy of my plan.”

Theo briefly glances at her, furrowing his brows as if her very presence surprises him. What a piece of shit he is.

“So, newbie, wanna start?” Gabe looks up at Theo, an oddly challenging sparkle in his eyes. It’s like he's prepared for Theo to be terrible at this, which would truly make Stiles' day, he’s not going to lie, but Gabe acts like they’re old rivals when, in truth, they most definitively haven’t met aside from passing each other in the hallways of Beacon Hills High.

With a curt nod, Theo brushes against him to reach the starting block – and Stiles could’ve _sworn_ Theo pressed his fingers against his thigh but the touch was so short and so simple, he might as well have imagined it. Not that he’s usually imagining Theo to touch him.

Shaking his head, Stiles moves away from him and stands next to Sydney.

Theo narrows his eyes at the starting block, gaze darting back and forth between the pedals. He’s _so_ out of his element, it’s honestly endearing to watch him trying to remember what one of his PE teachers at another school probably taught him at one point or another. Usually, people starting track know their shit when it comes to these mundane things. They know which is their strong leg, they know how far apart the pedals have to be for a perfect start.

Stiles crosses his arms. “You all right there?”

Theo glares at him.

“Maybe you should go back to the gym,” Stiles says with a smirk and the exhilarating feeling of having the upper hand for once. “You don’t belong here, Raeken.”

When Stiles accompanies Lydia to her classroom, he notices the empty desk Scott and Kira should be sitting at. Is he still in the tunnels? Despite his anger, Stiles' stomach contorts, and he swallows heavily. Maybe something happened to him and he left him down there. He should’ve tried to convince Theo to take him too. He does have a certain kind of influence on him after all. To some extent; at the very least enough to help the guy see reason once every blue moon.

Lydia places a hand on his arm and pats her desk. Since they’re early and he’s having a free period anyway, Stiles drops onto the empty chair next to her. “I would know if something happened to him.”

Right. _Right_. She would definitively now. Stiles nods and allows himself to relax. Only a moment later, his mind has returned exactly to where it has been since he exited the locker room after practice. “I have no idea how to explain the truth to Jordan.”

“I’m sorry I forgot to tell you.” Lydia traces the letters on her AP Biology textbook without looking at him. After he mentioned that Theo told him what Jordan really is, and how he’s found out about it, she grew very pale. She doesn’t have anything to worry about anything. It's not like Stiles gave her a lot of chances to tell him. First, he drew away and then he piled more shit on top of it.

He shrugs. “Knowing he's a hellhound,” Stiles whispers crossing his arms on the table, “doesn’t exactly make it easier.” The fact that it called him master and that it follows his orders leaves a bad taste in his mouth. What if _that’s_ the reason Jordan cares about him in the first place? Maybe Cerberus somehow got into his dad's head and convinced him to send Stiles to Jordan in case something would happen to him. It feels _wrong_ to let something else make these kinds of decisions for Jordan.

“It should be you… seeing your connection.” Lydia picks one of her strawberry blonde hairs of his sleeve.

“Yeah, I know.” Although he wishes he could coax Cerberus out of his shell before telling Jordan the truth. There are so many questions he still has for the hellhound. Jordan also deserves to know what’s going on with him. In fact, he deserves the truth far more than Stiles deserves answers. 

She folds her hands under her chin and gives him the kind of look that implies an incoming scolding, “I also suggest you figure out what’s going on with you, so-"

“I already texted Brett.”

“You sent him a text message,” Lydia says deadpan. Massaging the bridge of her nose, she takes a deep breath but doesn’t add anything. Probably because she knows the simple gestures said enough.

Stiles bristles. “I was home late, okay? I didn’t want to wake him up.”

Lydia quirks her brows, amusement curling around her bright red lips. “Does Brett look like a person who goes to bed on time to you?”

How would he know what kind of person Brett is? He knows, and knew from the very beginning, what kind of person Theo is; a shady dickhead. Seeing that his trouble senses haven’t been tingling whenever he interacted with Brett is a good sign. Potentially. It’s not like he has an infallible feeling every time. _Most_ of the time, sure, but not always. Stiles eyes her sceptically as she smiles as if she enjoys very much whatever or whoever she’s currently thinking about – it probably says a lot how long he needs until he realises _how mundane_ it is. “Oh my god,” Stiles says, his voice an odd mixture of amusement and exasperation, “you _like_ him.”

Lydia tsks. “I wouldn’t say _like_. I enjoy looking at him, and surely wouldn’t say no.” With a devilish smile, she turns to look at him. “Would you?”

This conversation belongs in a time and place far from now. There are people dying and teenagers vanishing because of three immortal whackjobs who, for some fucking reason, try to recreate or resurrect a gigantic, monstrous beast-like creature. Talking about anything but _that_ seems wrong. At the same time, it feels quite nice to be distracted with something else for a change. Although it’s not necessarily something he’s often talked about even before Scott got bitten. “I don’t know,” he says reluctantly, knowing full well Lydia won’t exactly mind if he tells her he’s into guys as well. It’s still a bit overwhelming to talk about it. “The two times I actually saw him he was either threatening to kill Liam or vomited yellow liquid. Kinda hard to judge.”

“Give me your phone,” Lydia says with a sigh offering her hand palms up.

Stiles isn’t a hundred percent sure what his phone is going to do in this conversation, but he hands it over regardless. Maybe it’s a good thing if he obsesses over something completely different for a few seconds. It’s not going to kill anyone. _Hopefully_.

“If you don’t do perfectly normal teenager things once in a while, you’ll go insane,” Lydia tells him shaking her head as she swipes through his phone’s menu; a fruitless effort if the way she waves it in his face after a few moments is any indication. “Social Media, Stilinski.” With a roll of her eyes, she locks his phone.

“I’m not social,” Stiles replies which is only partially true; he doesn’t necessarily enjoy meeting new people – past experiences tell him it never ends up well – and he doesn’t at all mind being alone, sometimes he definitively prefers it. “I don’t like media either.” Comes with the territory of being a cop’s son. Maybe. His dad picks them to pieces, has done so since Stiles was young. He guesses he just adopted this particular mindset.

A heavy backpack drops on the desk before him startling him. “We’ve got bigger problems than Social Media,” Theo drawls beckoning for Stiles to get to his feet.

The smile Lydia offers Theo leaves no doubts about her intentions. However careful she used to be around him previously, these times are over. Stiles is both glad and worried about that particular change. After all, she knows everything about Theo, knows everything he’s done, what he’s ready to do – and the guy doesn’t hide his favouritism. Stiles’ bitching is already pushing his buttons. Seeing that he knocked Lydia out and locked her up for more than twelve hours, he’s not too sure provoking him is a good idea.

“I thought we’re pretending to be normal students by days,” Lydia tells him, fluttering her lashes in an over the top, almost obnoxious way.

Stiles doesn’t like the way Theo looks at her; a fire in his eyes and a sharp uptick to his lips that tells him everything he needs to know. “I don’t think this is your seat,” he says, but what he means it ‘ _if you break even a single hair on her body, I will end you_ ’.

Despite realising that he still has a lot to learn about him, Theo seems to understand the hidden meaning perfectly well. His expression doesn’t lessen in its intensity. “I wasn’t aware that friendly conversation is prohibited now.”

“It is if you’re part of it.” 

Lydia places a hand on his thigh.

Theo glances at the door. With a last pointed glare at Stiles, he yanks his backpack off the table and struts to his seat. The second after he sits, Mrs. Finch enters the room. Stiles takes that as his cue to leave.

“Dad, can I ask you a question?”

“Mhm,” he hums in agreement without even looking up from the Bestiary leaning against his thighs. His eyes continue to move back and forth over the pages, notepad and pen next to him on the table. He should probably be happier that he’s finally reading it – and actually takes it seriously – but Stiles doubts that’s the type of light reading the nurses were talking about when they said ‘nothing that impacts him emotionally’. When he’s finished that book, his father will have a too high stress level and most likely put him under house arrest.

Stiles also has the distinct feeling that he’s not listening to him. “I’m thinking about dropping out of school”.

Distractedly, his father nods.

“I set the house on fire,” Stiles announces leaning back against his chair to watch his dad closely. Maybe he should use his phone to record and trick his dad into giving him permission for some batshit crazy stuff – like allowing him to own a gun so he can _finally_ defend himself against supernatural creatures who constantly try to rip him to pieces. His dad knows he’s sensible when it comes to handling them. He’s taught him after all.

Stiles clicks his tongue. “Jordan proposed to me.”

“That’s great.”

“Fucking hell-“ Stiles yanks the Bestiary away from his dad- “listen, I’m glad you’re finally reading it, a year too late by the way, but can you listen to me when I talk to you?” He waves the encyclopaedia of more supernatural madness than he ever hopes to see around, then drops it onto his legs.

His dad shuffles into a more comfortable position. “I’m sorry, you were saying?”

Stiles huffs out an indignant breath. “I want to ask you a question.”

“I’m all ears.”

“Why did you send me to Jordan? Wasn’t I supposed to go to Melissa if something like- like this happened?” Stiles waves his hands around, then shrugs. He intended to ask the question the moment his dad told him to go live with his dear deputy but seeing how exhausted he’s been after the two surgeries, he pushed it to the back of his mind. After last night, however, he’s curious if that idea was his dad’s alone or if Cerberus somehow managed to talk him into it.

Sinking deeper into the cushions, his dad smiles at him. “Did you want to go to live with Scott and Melissa?”

Stiles pulls his shoulders up for a shrug but then doesn’t lower them again. Although he’s told his dad the story about what Scott thought happened to Donovan, Stiles didn’t exactly tell him how he feels about him – and his dad hasn’t known anything about their problems when he decided to send him to Jordan in the first place. Furrowing his brows, he looks back at his dad. “No,” he admits quietly. “But how’d you know that?”

“Once you are a dad yourself, you’ll know.”

Stiles squints. That’s not his answer, is it? Because it helps not even a little bit. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Sighing his dad reaches for his mug with, by now, most definitively cold tea. “I don’t remember the last time I’ve seen you two hanging out without the supernatural breathing down your neck.” He tries to make it sound casual but there’s the tiniest bit of sadness clinging to his tone. A sadness Stiles doesn’t quite deserve. But now that he’s thinking about it, he’s right. He spent his summer exclusively with either Lydia or Malia, and even that died down towards the end; like a breakup in the making. Maybe it's not just Donovan’s death that eventually tore them apart. Scott, however, came earlier. So, so much earlier. They started cracking sometime during their summer between sophomore and senior year. Stiles was busy trying to help Isaac and Derek find Erica and Boyd while Scott was following his ‘become a better Scott McCall' plan.

Something _broke_ between them during that summer, and although it wasn’t enough to end them, they slowly drifted apart until the only things they had in common was going to the same school, lacrosse and the pack. Their proximity and habit gave them the illusion of still being close, but Stiles realises now more than ever that distance is going to end their friendship once and for all. Maybe that’s why he’s been so obsessed with their college plan – plans Scott has found highly amusing. Either he’s not noticed it himself before, or he doesn’t care as much as Stiles thought he might. They were still friends. They were friends up until that very moment he chose Theo's ridiculous lie as his truth. 

“Did something happen between you two?” His dad asks when Stiles remains silent. “Before Scott believed Theo, I mean.”

Stiles fiddles with the hem of his shirt. After a moment, he shrugs. “We grew up.” He lets it sink in, allows the feeling to finally unfold from his mind. It drops like an avalanche of stones. Painful. Agonising. Stiles always believed heartbreak would be one single hellish moment when it shatters into a thousand pieces. But it’s not. It’s a fissure slowly tearing his heart open, bleeding everything good and letting in nothing aside from the shards of what’s left.

He never knew his heart could break like this losing Scott.

“Did I do something wrong?” His ribs tighten around his lungs, breath hitching in his throat. Perhaps he’s done something; something he hasn’t realised he’s doing. Maybe whatever he had done convinced Scott that Stiles is ready to bash someone’s head in, is ready to kill someone no matter the consequences, no matter what it means. He remembers how often he said to ‘let him die’, to ‘just kill him’. Sure. But his actions? Has he _ever_ let someone die? No. _No_. He’s never gone through with a threat. 

His dad squeezes his shoulder. “When you heard about Kira, what was your first reaction?”

Stiles looks at him with mild confusion. “I knew she didn’t do it.”

“Despite her out of control fox?”

“Of course. It’s _Kira_.” That’s such a fucking stupid question. Hell would have to freeze over before she’d intentionally kill someone.

His father nods and his mouth twists into half a smile, and half the _ahh_ shape – almost as if he expected the answer but tries not to be too obvious about it. “When Lydia hears about what happened to Donovan, what was her reaction?” His dad doesn’t fish for an answer somewhere in a dark ocean, he builds a well around the right spot and drops the bucket on top of his head.

Stiles gaze moves across his father face, frowning slightly. “She didn’t believe I did it,” he says after a moment of silence, barely resisting the urge to pull his knees to his chest and make himself small. It’s a very old habit he thought he’d be over. But the stress puts his mind and body into habits he’s developed when he was younger. Far too often has he sat on the corner of his mother’s bed, legs to his chest, chin on his knees, and his mother, when feeling well enough, or a nurse, would wrap a blanket around him, push a hot chocolate into his hands and somehow, miraculously everything felt better.

Squeezing his shoulder again, his dad says, “I think that’s answer enough.”

The sun is hiding behind a thin layer of dark clouds when he finally arrives at the Devenford Prep lacrosse pitch. Two guys face each other. From the distance, they look about the same height and age. Stiles assumes, at least. They dart around each other fast and with finesse, each movement graceful and secure. After a moment, one manages to spin past the other – Brett, probably. Without any doubt, he’s the best on his team. Something Stiles hasn’t only seen when he had to face him during a game; Liam confirmed it often enough during his little rants about the guy. Even his current opponent struggles and stops with a laughed-out cuss, knowing all too well Brett plays with him as he plays with everyone.

He’s moving to the bleachers in a half-strut, half-dance. He doesn’t at all look like the type of guy Liam constantly complains about, but Stiles has learned not to judge a person by their appearance. “Never thought you’d be the voyeur-type, Stilinski.”

Stiles swallows, glances at the guy picking up the ball. A white number fourteen is printed on the back of his dark green jersey. It doesn’t have a name yet. Just a number. Seems to be a new guy. Another player ready to wipe the floor with the Cyclones. At this point, Stiles wonders if he even should continue with lacrosse. It feels pointless. Shaking his head, Stiles returns his attention to Brett, who drops his helmet onto the bench, brow quirked curiously, hair a mess.

In spite of himself, Stiles notices whatever Lydia sees in him. There’s something _about_ him, something he can’t quite put his finger on. He’s physically attractive, yes, but that’s not all of it. Jordan is hot as well, yet, the thought to push him up against a wall and make sure that he’ll use his mouth for better things than smirking has never ever crossed his mind. It does when he meets Brett’s eye, though, and Stiles _hates_ himself for it. This is neither the time nor the place for it. Is he surprised that his mind wanders when he’s around a werewolf? Not at all.

Brett, having picked up on it or not, raises a single brow. “You’re without a pack.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Nothing.” Brett shrugs uncapping his water bottle. “Just thought I’d point it out.” Something about that smirk is as off-putting as it is attractive. Maybe it’s the confidence. Brett seems to walk a thin line between being too self-assured and carrying just enough to make everyone around him swoon.

The smirk also seems strangely familiar.

Stiles crosses his arms. “Tact, ever heard of that?”

Although Stiles is pretty sure Brett is neither stalling nor grasping desperately for a response when he takes his sweet time drinking, something is challenging about his prolonged silence. Eventually, he tosses the bottle onto his bag. “Funny you mention that,” Brett says, “I think I read it in a dictionary somewhere.”

 _Fucking hell_ , he’s a dick.

Stiles likes him.

“Okay, buddy.” Brett returns his attention to Number Fourteen on the field waving a hand in the air like he’s beckoning him over. “You wanted to come, now get your ass over here, so we can be done with your emotional reunion and get to the nitty-gritty of this meeting. I have things to do, places to be.” Which probably means that he uses his Golden Boy status to get himself into whatever club he wants and hooks up with whomever he likes. Being hot, amazing at lacrosse and somewhat famous in Beacon County must be great. Makes life probably very easy.

But _reunion_? What kind of reunion is he talking about?

Furrowing his brows, Stiles turns around.

Number Fourteen’s walk isn’t half as confident as Brett. In fact, there’s a bit of a hunch to his shoulders, and he rubs his neck for a moment or two. Maybe he isn’t good with being put on the spot, although Stiles isn’t exactly someone to be nervous around; especially not in comparison to Brett. He’s not supernatural, doesn’t have any particular talents and is a hell of a lot smaller than both guys. Feeling tiny has never been something Stiles had to deal with. Well, there’s a first for everything.

After dropping his lacrosse stick on the ground, Number Fourteen pulls his helmet off and a mop of messy brown curls falls into his forehead.

Stiles has to do a double-take. “ _Isaac_?”

“I don’t know why you look so surprised,” he says with a Cockney accent that’s not surprising in its existence but intensity. “Your idea, innit?”

“Yeah,” Stiles breathes, suppressing the urge to touch Isaac just to make sure he’s not hallucinating. “I didn’t expect you to take me up on it.” They’ve stayed in contact after Isaac left for France with Chris. Nothing intense. Just irregular text messages containing a brisk, ‘ _still alive. How about you?_ ’. After Stiles learned about the Ito pack, however, he’s informed Isaac about it. Part of him knew that in case of a return, the other boy wouldn’t want to be a member of Scott’s pack - they have been exceptionally distant and cool around each other after Allison’s death – so, he told him about Satomi. _Just in case_.

Brett clicks his tongue. “Damn, you’re about as emotional as dead fish.”

“That’s rich coming from you, mate.”

The smirk curls back around Brett’s lips, and it finally it’s Stiles why it seems so familiar. It is painfully similar to that Theo struts around with daily. Oh. _Oh_. Oh, no. That’s not a comparison he wants to draw. Not even a little bit. The last thing he needs is even more reminders about the unfortunate piece of shit sticking to the sole of his shoe wherever he goes and whoever he meets. Stiles massages the bridge of his nose. Theo’s is taking up a larger part of his life than he’s hoped he ever would. He seriously needs to destress. Maybe Lydia wasn’t completely wrong about him acting more like a normal teenager.

Whatever normal entails exactly.

“Well then,” Brett says dragging Stiles’ mind from the mess it’s about to throw itself into, “I don’t wanna spend the night here, so let’s make this quick.”

Isaac nudges Stiles’ arm when Brett briefly turns around and rolls his eyes theatrically. The playful grin on his lips turns into an honest smile. Mouthing _‘thanks'_ , Isaac squeezes his shoulder. It’s a strange throwback to the summer they looked for Erica and Boyd. Isaac isn’t exactly a tactile person, or at least needs some time until he allows himself to be physically close with other people. Having him collapse against his shoulder from sheer exhaustion one night was the first time Isaac has ever been close to him. Stiles remembers the look of mild surprise on Derek’s face when he saw his beta sleeping like that. Sometime after his forceful removal from the Hale pack, Isaac grew distant again. Stiles isn’t sure why that happened but he’s glad it changed again, even if he’s not about to mention it. They’re not the sappy kind of friends.

Brett brandishes absolutely nothing despite rummaging around in his bag intensely for half a minute. His scowl quickly vanishes, and the smirk returns when his gaze settles on Stiles. “There are only two reasons the nemeton would call someone to its location,” Brett says and despite the somewhat serious topic, his voices dances with amusement. 

Isaac’s eyes wander from Brett to Stiles and back again. Despite his cool and detached façade, a small frown appears between his eyebrows.

“One,” Brett says holding up a single finger, “to ensure the supernatural remains hidden. And two-“ he steps closer, and Stiles wonders if he tries to intimidate him with this behaviour. An almost wolfish glint sneaks into his expression when Stiles straightens his shoulders and raises his chin a fraction. With a poignant smirk, Brett adds a second finger. He doesn’t take this seriously, does he? “To give away its power.”

Stiles swats his fingers. “Why would it give its powers away?”

Shrugging Brett pushes his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants and raises his brows with an amused chuckle. “It’s dying.”


	8. family

_Dying_? It’s dying? That’s a lot to take in. That’s too much to take in. What would it even mean if the nemeton is dying? Stiles can’t imagine what kind of consequences it brings if something like that happens. He knows jack shit about the nemeton and its powers and everything that comes along with the territory. Deaton has never explained more than needed to solve a problem. It miraculously saved the darach, served as a prison for the nogitsune. Its wood alone has powers beyond imagination. And then the Dread Doctors came back because of the additional power he, Allison and Scott gave it. Jordan started burning chimeras to keep the supernatural hidden which the Dread Doc-

 _They’re running out of time_.

Stiles widens his eyes. Theo knows. He _knows_ what’s going on. He knows something is happening to the nemeton. That’s why he constantly pushed the topic onto him. This fucking piece of shit is keeping the truth from him. Theo knows _everything_ , has known from the beginning, and that’s why he wanted Stiles to go to the nemeton with him.

Brett turns away.

“Woah, hold on-“ Stiles grabs his upper arm and forces him to turn around again. His lips have twisted into a hard line; similar to the one he greeted him with the first time they’ve met. It wasn’t impressive then. It isn’t now. “It’s dying? How can something like the nemeton die?”

Brett furrows his brows. “I never said it’s dying. I just said that’s a possible reason for the nemeton to draw someone in. Usually, it’s the emissary or alpha of the pack of the territory it’s on.” So, Scott or Deaton. They are the alpha and emissary of the territory. But the nemeton didn’t call either of them. Do they know? Deaton might. Wouldn’t be the first time he’s not telling them everything. Or maybe he doesn’t know at all. That would be strangely satisfying.

“What can kill a nemeton?” Stiles presses on.

With a half exhausted, half exasperated sigh, Brett collapses onto the bench. “Hypothetically?” He asks sounding, despite his scowl, not as pissed as expected. “Magic, I guess. I don’t know.” But he wants to. Stiles can see it in his eyes; it’s the same fire he knows is in his own when he’s found a new topic to invest time in – when he finds a new challenge. “Shit like that is basically impossible.” It’s not. Brett knows it isn’t impossible, otherwise, it wouldn’t have been written down somewhere. “Everything I’ve read are fucking theories, man.”

Stiles bites the inside of his cheek. Terror and excitement clash inside of him. If the nemeton really called him for its power, that’s fucking cool. He can be more than just the puny human in desperate need to be protected. He can defend himself. He can finally _do_ something. But if Brett’s right and the nemeton is dying, what does that mean for Beacon Hills?

“Okay, mate,” Isaac says grabbing Stiles' shoulder to turn him around. “I know that face, what’s going on?” The genuine worry in his voice turns his stomach to knots. They haven’t seen each other in what feels like forever, he’s part of the reason Isaac has left in the first place, and sometimes, Stiles found himself not wondering about him at all – and here Isaac stands, furrowing his brows in this familiar way, worrying about him.

Stiles presses his lips in a thin line, then glances at his bandaged hand. Is there even anything left of the bruises the nemeton’s roots left behind? His knuckles might be the only thing visible from that night. It also might look as if he released pent up rage on a stone wall. He swallows around his heart jumping into his throat and turns to Brett. “Why do you think I asked?”

“Because Posh Spice over there said you’re a sponge for weird shit.”

Isaac crosses his arms with an indignant scowl. Rolling his eyes, he mutters something that sounds suspiciously like _raspberry tart._

Momentarily, the phrase takes him by surprise. Stiles opens his mouth glancing at Isaac but when Brett barks out a laugh his attention snaps back to the problem at hand. “I’m not,” he says after a pause that’s too long to be believable. Let’s be real, he _is_ a sponge for weird fucking shit. But that’s not the point. “I was at the nemeton.”

“You what?”

Stiles almost flinches at the intensity in Brett’s gaze. “Friday night. Theo- he…” The threat still tapes the words to the insides of his mouth. Stiles clears his throat, glues his gaze to his bandaged hand. “He made me find it and I did, and I touched it.” The further Brett’s brow climbs, the more anxious Stiles becomes. “When I did, it- uh, it grabbed me.” Nobody needs too many details about the night. Resurrecting the chimeras isn’t really an essential part of this story.

Isaac works his fingers through his hair.

Brett scoffs. “Yeah, right.”

For fuck’s sake, this boy is a piece of work. “Fine,” Stiles snaps hooking his fingers underneath the bandage and loosens it until he can tear it off. As expected, the bruises are pale enough that they’re hardly visible and his knuckles are the most obvious indicator of what could also be a rather violent encounter with a wall. “There, _look_.” He offers Brett his hand, who drags his eyes over the bloody knuckles drawing his eyebrows together. “It wrapped its roots around my hand and-“

Without any sort of warning, Brett suddenly grabs his hand and turns it around, palms directed towards him. His eyes burn bright yellow. “Fuck me.”

“What?” Isaac asks.

“Look.”

“I’m _looking_.”

Brett rolls his eyes heavenward before kicking Isaac’s shin. “Use your _powers_ , idiot.”

Isaac looks like he’s about to whack Brett upside down the head with his lacrosse stick, but thinks better of it, and does what he was told instead. The bright blue yields burning yellow. “What the-" His eyes widen almost comically as he grabs Stiles’ arm and turns it this way and that. “Bloody hell.”

Stiles lets out a long breath. “ _What_?” They’re clearly seeing something. Unless they’re shitting him right now. Which they hopefully aren’t.

Isaac yanks his arm in the air. “You’re not seeing this?”

“I’m going out on a limb here and guess you’re not talking about my moles,” Stiles says squinting at both boys not without a level of uncertainty. Although he’s not usually listening to other people’s opinions about someone, Liam’s made a long list of shit Brett pulled over time. 

The look he shoots him makes clear that the guy is far from joking. “You don’t see anything unusual? Or feel any different?”

“Aside from the fact that I’m mildly horrified and very confused, I feel pretty normal, thanks.”

Brett scowls at him.

“Your veins are like... blue,” Isaac says vaguely gesturing in the direction of his arms.

Stiles opens his mouth to point out the obvious, but Brett is faster. “Those are not just blue veins-“ Again, Stiles wants to mention that blue looking veins are nothing special. Yet, the second he opens his mouth for a second time, Brett finally decides that he’s ready to finally get to the point, “those are the electric currents.”

 _Electric currents?_ There are electric currents inside of him? Stiles yanks his arm free, legs suddenly extremely wobbly, and stares at his pale skin. _Pale_. Just pale. Nothing else. Nothing else at all. This is a joke. It has to be a joke.

“Yo, you’re not gonna faint on me, are you?”

Stiles shakes his head. He’s not going to faint, but he won’t promise anything else. Throwing up feels like a very valid option because his stomach lurches with the intent to rid itself of his lunch. He takes a deep breath. “I don’t understand,” Stiles admits massaging the bridge of his nose, “there’s electricity in my body?”

“No.” Brett pushes to his feet and wraps his fingers around Stiles’ wrist again. His hand is strangely warm against his skin as he pushes his shirt up to his elbow. He repeats it on his right arm before turning his hands, palms up. “That-“ starting in the middle of the palm of his right hand, Brett follows an invisible line up to his elbow. “That’s magic.” His smirk returns with the strength of a thousand suns. “The kind of magic you’d only imagine in your wildest dreams.”

Isaac makes a sound between a sigh and a laugh.

“So…” Stiles swallows around the lump in his throat pulling his sleeves back down, “it’s dead?”

Brett pats his head with an air of condescension. “Pretty sure you’ll notice when that happens.”

“If you think this is somehow reassuring,” Stiles mutters slapping his hand away from his head – he gets it, he’s _small_ and doesn’t know shit about anything – crossing his arms tightly over his chest, “you’re really fucking wrong.”

“If you think I care,” Brett says coolly grabbing his gym bag with a raised brow, “ _you’re_ really fucking wrong.” Clapping his shoulder, he strides off.

Stiles scowls.

Isaac slings his bag over his shoulder. “I know he acts like a nob,” he says nudging Stiles’ arm with a small but definitively apologetic grin. “It’s nothing personal. I reckon it has something to do with his fear of commitment.”

“Yo, Posh Spice, I’m leaving your ass unless you get it in gear _right now_!” Brett bellows already more than halfway across the pitch acting like he can’t get away fast enough. Which, well, might most definitively be true. Nobody wants to be dragged into the mess unfolding in Beacon Hills. Nobody _should_ be dragged into the mess. Period.

Isaac jogs after a brief nod.

Stiles collapses onto the newly deserted bench and stares at his normal, very human-looking hands. 

Stiles closes the door with a quiet click. Taking a deep breath, he leans against it.

Jordan briefly glances at him over his shoulder, smiling as they lock eyes, before returning to the pan on the oven. There’s a cookbook propped up against the wall, page showing a picture of some Asian sweet potato curry recipe. He hums along with the song playing on the radio standing on top of the fridge. This is _painful_. It’s so normal, and Jordan seems so delighted about the simple task of cooking dinner.

The second he opens his mouth, Stiles is going to ruin that. So, he pushes his thoughts and guilty conscience away and himself off the door. “Smells delicious.”

“I hope it’ll taste as good as it smells,” Jordan replies running a hand over the nape of his neck. “Pretty sure I put in too much salt.”

“That means you’re in love.”

Jordan looks at him again, brows raised in confusion.

With a chuckle, Stiles hops onto the counter. “My gramps says that whenever my gran puts too much salt in the food.” He shrugs, not even remembering when he’s heard those words the last time. A sudden longing for his grandmother’s bone-crushing embraces and his grandfather’s terrible jokes takes him by surprise. There are times when he misses his maternal grandparents more than usual, but it never hit him hard enough that the simple possibility of hearing their voices makes him choke on a breath.

Furrowing his brows, Jordan lowers the heat on the stove and turns away from the dinner-to-be. “Are you okay?” After a second of hesitation, he places a hand on his shoulder. “What did Brett say?” Funny how he thinks his mood has anything to do with Brett.

Stiles swallows heavily. “I have to talk to Cerberus.”

Jordan stares at him. “ _Who_? What?”

Not meeting his eye, staring at his knees instead, Stiles repeats, “I have to talk to Cerberus.” Stillness greets him, heavy and long and dreadful. He doesn’t want to do this. The silence stretches on and on and on. Stiles drops to his feet, head down and steps in front of the stove. The lack of response indicates the hellhound's arrival. “Is it true?”

“I’m afraid I’m not sure what you are referring to.”

Stiles grabs the wooden spoon and stirs the curry slowly. His stomach doesn’t give him much hope of keeping any food down. “I’m talking about the nemeton dying.”

“That is true.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? Or anybody?”

Cerberus remains oddly quiet for a moment, its gaze intense one his cheek. If Stiles didn’t know better, he’d guess the hellhound is trying to figure out who it is dealing with. Hard to believe it cares. “The nemeton would still be dying,” it says after a long pause. “We would still be where we are now.”

The spoon scrapes over the pan’s bottom with a bit more force than strictly necessary. “I could’ve prepared myself,” Stiles objects despite not even knowing _how_ he could prepare himself for something like that. Well, then again, knowing would’ve given him the chance to _mentally_ prepare himself at the very least. Now, he has to kill time until the nemeton inevitably dies and fuck knows what’s going to happen then.

“Would that have changed anything?”

That’s one of the stupidest questions he’s ever heard. “Yes! I mean, no- maybe. I don't know.” Stiles slams the spoon against the edge of the pan, splattering the stove and himself with curry. Not that he should get so worked up about it – or expect much from a hellhound. Cerberus doesn’t seem like any of the other supernatural creatures he’s met. Even the nogitsune had more understanding of the human psyche than Cerberus does – and that’s not what he’d call a good sign. “I would’ve _known_. I would’ ve-" exasperated, Stiles shoves the pan from the stove plate and turns it off before rounding on Cerberus properly; because he’s really having a death wish. “The outcome would’ve been the same but at least I’d been aware of what’s happening!”

Cerberus blinks at him, head cocked and eyes roaming over his face. It looks, for the lack of a better word, almost curious. “I can inform you from now on if you prefer.”

His detached mannerism is driving Stiles up the wall. “Yes, I’d _prefer_ that,” he snaps pointing the dirty spoon at him in an almost threatening manner. “And Jordan should know as well.”

“About the nemeton?”

“ _No_.” For fuck's sake, it’s like talking to a toddler. Or Theo. Talking to Theo is just as infuriating. “About what he is- what _you_ are... what’s happening to him.”

Again, Cerberus contemplates him for a while.

“Listen, Jordan is a good guy. He’s not going to stand in your way.” The anger is quieting down, and Stiles sinks against the kitchen counter absentmindedly dipping his finger into the curry on the spoon. “You can’t just possess someone,” he adds almost as an afterthought.

“I saved his life,” Cerberus tells him with undeterred calm and in a tone that makes it impossible to figure out if it’s a mere fact or a defence.

Stiles runs a hand over his face. This day sucks. He can’t wait for it to be over. After the conversation with Brett, he isn’t in the mood to try and explain the basic concept of a relatively healthy human interaction to a goddamn hellhound. “Consent,” he says regardless crossing and uncrossing his arms, before curling his fingers around the edge of the counter. “You have to ask.”

“You want me to ask Jordan if I can possess him?”

“It’s too late for that, isn’t it?” Stiles runs both hands through his hair before curling them into tight fists. “I want you to _tell_ him what’s up. He has nightmares-“

“Those are no ordinary nightmares.”

When he folds his arms over his chest, Stiles has the odd sensation that he’s holding himself together. It’s cold. Or maybe he just feels cold. Or maybe Cerberus is sucking all the warmth away. “I want you to work _with_ him.” Stiles still doesn’t feel confident in bossing around a hellhound he knows nothing about. Even if it protected him, he doesn’t have any guarantee that it won’t change its mind at any given time.

But Cerberus simply tips its head to one side. “As you wish. When he regains consciousness, Jordan will be aware of everything.”

Stiles nods then thinks better of it. “One more thing,” he says rubbing his upper arm with a certain amount of nervousness bubbling in his veins, “do you have anything to do with my being here?”

A pause follows his question. Stiles wonders if he’s too late. After a moment, however, Cerberus says in his usual, detached manner, “you are important to Jordan."

Stiles instantly regrets asking such a personal question. His curiosity wins out; however, before he can ask about the whole master shenanigans, about what the Cerberus thinks of him, Jordan returns. He can see it in the way emotions slip into his expression, mild confusion widening his eyes, lips parting for a question he can’t get out. His pupils dilate, gaze jumping from left to right as if he’s reading a text.

Swallowing nervously, Stiles turns away, busying himself with the curry. He has no idea how Jordan will react once he knows everything, once he knows the truth, once he knows that he would’ve been dead if not for the one in a million chance of a hellhound in need of a vessel. That’s a pretty life-altering thing to learn. Stiles half expects him to grab a glass of whiskey. What he didn’t expect, however, was that Jordan will smack the back of his head with a thunderstruck, “are you _insane_?”

Stiles whips his head around. “What did _I_ do?” He asks around a teaspoon of, in fact, far too salty curry.

“Cerberus would’ve hurt you if you weren’t connected to the nemeton,” Jordan says, and there’s a small tick in his jaw that can’t mean anything good. “I’m not going to teach you to fight as long as you are this reckless.”

Stiles gapes at him. “ _What_?”

“You heard me,” Jordan says with a finality to his voice Stiles has only heard coming from his dad.

“Dude,” he exclaims as Jordan yanks the spoon from his fingers, “how is that fair? I was just trying to figure shit out.” How else is he supposed to learn stuff if he’s not allowed to ask questions? Logic, anyone? He’s trying to _help_ , to protect this stupid town. Yes, sure, sometimes it’s risky but that doesn’t mean he should shy away from doing it. He has to start somewhere.

For the briefest of moments, Jordan looks like he’s ready to whack him with the spoon. He shoves it back into the curry instead. “And you think pestering the creatures flipping your jeep with you _inside_ is the best way to do that?” Glaring at him, Jordan tastes the curry himself, and while he tries hard to keep his expression under control, he can’t keep his mouth from curling into a disgusted line.

Stiles clears his throat. “A tablespoon honey should do the trick.”

“Excuse me?”

“The curry-“

“Don’t change the subject!” Jordan snaps ripping a cupboard door open as if it personally offended him and searches for something rather furiously. “How am I supposed to look your dad in the eye when you end up in the hospital because I taught you how to fight?” With an intensity that should be reserved for criminals, he pulls a glass of honey out of the cupboard and slams the door shut.

 _Fair_ , but still. “Look at it that way,” Stiles says offering him a tablespoon, “I won’t stop looking, but if you train me, I have a bigger chance of not getting hurt because I know how to defend myself.” It’s far better to be able to fight than having nothing more than a baseball bat to hide behind, right? _Right_. Has to be. The more he can fight, the better he can defend himself and _that’s_ what they’re aiming for, isn’t it?

Jordan narrows his eyes, clearly hating how Stiles turned his words upside down.

“I don’t get it, Lydia can just as easily get hurt as-“

“But you’re not _Lydia_ ,” Jordan snaps getting far more than the necessary spoonful of honey out of the glass, “you’re-“ he breaks off watching the honey drip into the curry.

Stiles jumps off the counter, lips curled into a bitter line. “ _Human_ ,” he spits curling his hands into fists, “you can say it.” Being human sometimes irks him more than he’s able to put into words. He’s used to be proud of remaining human despite all the crazy shit going on around them. Sometimes, however, being human feels like an insult; like he’s a bug on the scheme of everything waiting to be crushed by the first supernatural creature that’s fed up with him – something he wouldn't be able to prevent. Because he can’t fight. Because he’s human, and that’s equal to being weak, to being at the bottom of the food chain.

He’s human.

He’s breakable.

He’s _nothing_.

A hand falls onto his shoulder, fingertips pressing against his collarbone. “I know we don’t know each other that long; I know… I’m your dad’s deputy but-” Jordan takes a deep breath, places his left hand on Stiles’ shoulder as well. “When the sheriff was hurt the last time,” Jordan says, ‘ _because of me_ ’ clinging to every syllable like they’ve been dragged through the mud, “I offered to take care of you. At first, I did it because of my guilty conscience but-" he stocks again, and Stiles turns around, head slightly tipped back to look Jordan in the eye.

_You are important to Jordan._

He’s a bit surprised himself, Stiles has to admit, yet when he wraps his arms around Jordan’s shoulder and chest, it feels strangely _right_ ; almost as if they should’ve gotten this conversation out of the way far, far earlier. And yet, neither has to say anything, because Stiles is pretty sure Jordan feels _family_ ringing in his bones as much as he is when he hugs him back.

_》_ _Something came up. Can you ask Lydia to drive you home?_

Stiles runs a hand over his face. Well, shit. Lydia has an appointment at the hospital because she’s still suffering headaches after Theo hit her. Since Stiles was supposed to meet Jordan, he didn’t ask if she could take him to his dad. Now, he’s kind of stranded here. He doesn’t even know which bus drives in the direction of either the hospital or Jordan’s flat.

 _Great_.

With a sigh, Stiles pushes away from the wall. The police station is closest to the school. He can text Jordan that he’s on his way, so he won’t drive off without him.

But he doesn’t get far.

Theo steps in his path, smirk in place. “Waiting for someone?”

“I hope you expect I say _you_ ,” Stiles replies sidestepping to get away, “I live to disappoint.”

Theo's grip is vice-like and far too familiar around his arm. Fingertips press against his wrist. The touch makes his pulse race, less because of fear but the foreboding feeling of something terrible happening in the not so distant future. Sometimes it’s like this particular feeling is inevitably linked to Theo’s very presence. “I’ve got something for you, Stiles,” Theo tells him quietly. “I think you’ll like it.”

“Is it your head on a stick?”

A chuckle is the only response he gets. A predictable reaction. It’s not particularly satisfying. Stiles wants him to become angry. He wants him to be pissed. Angry. Annoyed. Fed up. _Something_. But he always chuckles. He always pretends like Stiles doesn’t mean what he’s saying. Because he does. He really does.

“Would be a fantastic early Christmas present,” Stiles adds.

Theo pulls him around. “Trust me.”

Resigning to his fate, Stiles trudges alongside him. It’s not like he can free himself anyway. “You throw that word around like it’s candy.”

“What word?”

“ _Trust_ ,” Stiles says pointedly staring straight ahead when Theo's gaze dart towards him. “I doubt you know what it means.”

Again, Theo laughs ever so quietly; a sound grating on Stiles‘ nerves more than it should. Getting this worked up about something as insignificant as Theo's impenetrable ego isn’t something he needs to waste his time on. But he can’t help it. What’s even worse is that he knows Theo _likes_ it. He wants him worked up. He wants him pissed and angry and murderous because somehow he thinks that connects them.

It doesn’t.

Nothing connects him. He won’t let that happen.

Theo stops next to his truck. The car opens with a harsh melody of _bleeps_ , then falls silent. “You are too quick to judge,” he says leaning over the backseat of his car, offering the best position to kick his ass and run. But Theo straightens before Stiles has the chance to move a muscle and holds a book up to his face. “I didn’t wrap it,” he says in a tone that’s more amusement than an apology, “the Dread Doctors own a vast collection of various books.” With a smirk, he tips the book forward showing a battered cover. There’s no author on it, no title, just a few embellishments at its corners and a familiar-looking tree and its roots. _The nemeton_. “I’m sure you’ll enjoy a lot of them.”

It’s a trap. It’s an _obvious_ fucking trap. But Stiles doesn’t care. He snatches the book right out of his fingers. “What do you want for this?” Stiles asks flipping through the pages with a quirked brow. Every page has scribblings all over it, upside down, from top to bottom. Some don’t make a lot of sense. Some are written in French. Although he knows better, Stiles is instantly interested in everything written in this book – on all the other books he could possibly get his hands on.

“You,” Theo says as if he’s requesting a coffee for his effort. “You know the nemeton didn’t try to kill you. I want that magic.”

Stiles snaps the book shut and presses it against Theo’s chest. “Keep it.”

Finally, he gets a reaction, even if it's not the one he's expected. Theo grabs the collar of his shirt and slams Stiles against the side of his truck. The book clatters to the ground. Theo kicks it aside before he steps closer, ignoring every last bit of personal space. “Listen to me,” he says in a low voice, “I’m the reason you got your powers in the first place. You owe me.”

“I don’t owe you shit,” Stiles shoots back pushing at Theo’s shoulders, but the guy doesn’t even budge. Anxiety pours into his body. He hates every single second of this, hates how powerless he is in comparison to Theo; and that’s the problem, isn’t it? His weakness. He’s a liability for his friends. All he can do is mouth off and piss their enemies off even further.

He grabs Stiles by the back of his head and moves their faces closer together. No. No, no, no, no. This is not good. This is very terrible. Distance. They need distance. Much more distance. This is not a good position to be in. This is the worst position to be in - but no matter how much Stiles struggles, Theo doesn't even budge an inch. “You-" A car door slams shut, and Theo whips his head around.

Stiles widens his eyes.

“Oi, that's not how you treat a fellow student.” Isaac strides over to him, warning clear in the way he bares his – for now – human teeth in a dangerous grin. Even though the parking lot is mostly empty, it hopefully stays this way. They don't need a supernatural fight in-between all these cars.

Theo keeps Stiles against the car with an arm over his neck. “Who are you?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Brett says sauntering after Isaac, hands pushed in the pockets of his Devenford Prep uniform. They came here immediately after school. What the hell possessed them to do that? It seemed as if they talked about everything there is to talk about during their fun little meeting yesterday evening. Especially Brett didn’t seem particularly fond of continuing the conversation.

Not that he wants to complain about their unannounced arrival. “That’s Theo,”

“Oh, that’s _the_ Theo?” Isaac suddenly seems highly amused and, throwing caution to the wind, bends down to be on eye-level with him. “He's just a little nipper.” Someone clearly spent way too much time in England; picturing him and Jackson living together still seems like a fairy tale - even more, because it’s hard to believe Jackson is a fun person to live with. But then again, it’s probably better than Isaac living on the street. Maybe Stiles should’ve found the Hale pack for him. That way he would’ve been _out_. Because wherever Derek and Cora are, they’re far from Beacon Hills. As they – and everyone else – should be.

“Huh.” Brett raises a single, unimpressed brow. “I expected the guy who brought down a true alpha to be… I don’t know- at least this taller than a pre-schooler.” With a smirk slipping onto his lips, Brett crosses his arms over his chest.

It’s probably not the best idea to anger Theo even more than strictly necessary; especially since Isaac and Brett seem to have too much fun being the worst people. Truth be told, Stiles isn’t that surprised the two ended up becoming friends. Isaac wasn’t exactly Prince Charming when they went to school together, and Brett’s kind of a prick as well. Not a single person right here, right now belongs into the category nice, though.

“Oh.” Isaac makes a sound of mock-surprise, then bends down to pick up the book. “This looks important.”

Theo grabs Stiles by the nape of his neck and pulls him next to him. “It isn’t worth the paper it’s made of without him.”

Stiles is hyper-aware of every single finger pressing against his skin. Jordan was beside himself with fury when he saw the marks on the back of his neck. It took a lot to calm him down. His father hasn’t seen them yet. Stiles makes sure he keeps them hidden underneath the thick fabric of hoodies whenever he's at the hospital. But just because he doesn’t feel or see them, doesn’t mean he doesn’t remember how they got there. Stiles swallows the fear in favour of anger. “Do I look like Harry Potter to you?”

“You want to have a wand?” Theo asks forcing Stiles to look at him. “They’re like 30 bucks. I’ll buy you one.”

Stiles flips him off.

“Now, get in the car.” Theo opens the passenger’s door before giving him a shove.

Stumbling backwards, Stiles bangs his head on the car. Pain explodes in his skull, brutal and unrelenting. He presses both hands against the agonising spot groaning quietly. _Oh god_. Things like this remind him how much he hates being breakable. “Fuck,” he breathes crouching down.

“Shit," Theo says crouching down next to him, "Stiles, I'm-"

“Okay, mate, I don’t usually beat a child,” Isaac threatens not without an edge in his voice that doesn’t bode well, “but you overstayed your welcome.”

The glaring pain receded to a dull ache that’s most definitively going to accompany him through the whole fucking day, and, if he’s really unlucky, tomorrow as well. But he doesn’t quite have the time to suffer in silence. The pair of claws right in front of his face makes abundantly clear that he should act _now_ if he intends to keep Isaac from getting hurt. He knows Isaac is strong and a well-trained werewolf – Derek made sure of that. Still, Theo fights the way he plays; dirty and without haste to stop even with his opponent down. No matter how much he doesn’t want to admit it, Theo is a good fighter.

“Isaac, it’s fine,” Stiles says looking at Brett for help, but the guy leans against his car, scrolling through his phone and clearly not giving a shit.

“Theo.” Stiles grabs his arm and uses it to pull himself back on his feet. “Just let it be, okay? I come with you, you can teach me your mag-“

“Stow it.” Isaac tosses the book to Brett, who catches it without looking up from his phone. “I can take him.” Neither pride nor the desire to prove something should be high up on anybody’s list of priorities right now.

Stiles makes a grab for Theo's arm. " _Don't-"_


	9. allies

With a yelp, Stiles pushes himself away from the truck a moment before Theo slams into it. He stumbles, curls his fingers around his backpack as his eyes dart back and forth between the fighting werewolves and the truck. Honestly, it’s a miracle the car survived the impact without any visible damage. His jeep wouldn’t have pulled through. Now that they're busy, he should probably make a beeline to the police station. Keeping a safe distance, getting caught in a werewolf fight isn’t something he’s too keen on, and he would’ve left the parking lot as fast as possible if not for Brett patting the side of his car. His ability to pick up on social cues isn’t always at its peak but it’s not particularly hard to read that.

When Stiles stops next to Brett, he is offered the open book like a pack of cigarettes. _Pick one_ , the gesture almost seems to say. Brett still doesn’t look away from his phone, almost seems bored by everything going on. Instagram, Stiles notices, and somehow that’s not particularly surprising. He’s the type. People are probably loving his pictures left and right. If Theo had a normal childhood, he’d be all up on this social media train as well. But as it is, he’s been manipulated into killing his sister, acts like he's the biggest and baddest of bad boys and gets his ass kicked.

Theo’s elbow connects with Isaac’s nose and a sickening crunch. With a groan, Isaac presses his hands to his face stumbling backwards.

 _Or not_.

“Shouldn’t you stop it?” Stiles tips his head to the side, gaze flitting from the fight to Brett and chews on his bottom lip. 

“Isaac’s a big boy, he can handle himself.” He continues to keep his attention on the phone. His ignorance is starting to get on Stiles’ nerves. “And if you really wanna stop it-“ Brett taps his finger against the page without looking up, “-try that.”

Stiles glances down furrowing his brows. There’s nothing written aside from _I can use my magic like a shockwave_ which seems to have excited the previous owner of this book seeing how it's almost impossible to read their scribblings. But since that’s all the information he gets, this doesn’t help him at all. “I thought I’m supposed to use words?”

“For the hard-“ a sudden _bang_ interrupts him, and Stiles whips his head around to find Theo pushing away from an ominous dent near the roof of his truck, and Isaac sneering at him. “Oh, that hurt.” Brett draws his brows together in what looks like pity even though he’s chuckling as he watches the fight go on. Nobody seems to be winning, and neither gets a lot of hits in. But when they do, they’re painful. Isaac has a bloody nose, and Theo has a nasty cut on the forehead. Why the two are fighting like that doesn’t make a lick of sense. Isaac started it which surprised Stiles the most. Usually, Theo is the one having trouble to keep his giant ego under control; unless Stiles insults him.

It’s weird. Very weird.

Brett points at the book again. “You don’t have to use words or gestures at all. It all happens in here.” With a smirk, he taps Stiles' temple twice. His touch is soft despite his abrasive nature. “They help focus and direct your magic, so you don’t accidentally set a chair on fire when you’re aiming for a candle. You can dance the fucking lambada if it helps you. You’re not bound by the laws of witches.” Brett shrugs before returning his attention to his phone again scrolling through past pictures and pictures of mostly groups of people as well as some selfies of girls and boys. 

Stiles gapes at him for a second. _Laws of witches_? Another pained grunt catches his attention. Stiles whips his head around, catches Isaac regaining his balance a moment before Theo swings at him again and misses, even if barely. Astonished at the complete lack of interest in the trouble his packmate is in, Stiles stares at Brett. _What the fuck_? He rubs his chin, studies his profile; his sharp jaw, slightly pursed lips and narrowed eyes. Maybe he's not completely unfazed. Maybe he's- maybe Isaac's right. Maybe he has actually issues with commitment. But he's not in the position to ask this question. He's not in the position to push. So, he turns back to the book. Clearing his throat, Stiles taps a nail against the cover. “I have no idea where to even start.”

To his astonishment, Brett lowers his phone and looks at him with a frown. “You still don’t feel anything?”

His chest tightens. “No.” Stiles averts his eyes, trying to will the heat creeping up his neck away. _Great._ Just what he needs being too stupid to notice something that big. 

Isaac slams to the ground with a groan right in front of their feet. Stiles jumps, flushes even further when he realises there are fucking people around who could see him. Swallowing nervously, Stiles searches the parking lot for Theo, finds him standing opposite him with bloody claws and bared teeth. He glances at Isaac, gnawing his teeth. There’s a lot of blood clinging to Isaac's nose, chin, and part of his cheek but the damage seems to have mostly healed already. His school uniform, however, won’t recover from Theo’s ruthless treatment.

“Hm.” Brett tosses his phone through the open window of his car. “That’s unfortunate.” With the patience of a thousand people, he yanks the sweater vest over his head, gets rid of his tie and rolls the sleeves of his white dress shirt up to his elbow.

Stiles looks down at Isaac, then back up at Theo. Neither boy has shifted, but their eyes are burning yellow. Both of which are going to be hard to explain to anyone but Satomi. Although she probably won’t be too happy about it either. Nobody would be happy about what’s going on here, and Stiles has the feeling that he should probably step in, but Brett is the last person he wants to mess with. Not that he’s scary. He’s just a bit intimidating; hot but definitively intimidating. Theo isn’t that intimidating in comparison. Attractive, for sure, but not at all intimidating. He has his moments but he saved Stiles so often, all his threats seem kind of unbelievable. He'd have to make a complete one-eighty before any of his threats towards him will be somewhat worrying again; which is most definitively the reason Theo has decided to threaten the people around Stiles because those don’t share the same privileges.

Tearing his gaze away from Theo, Stiles crouches down next to Isaac, who leans against the wheel of Brett’s car refusing to look him in the eye. It’s hard to tell if losing hurt his ego or the fact that he attacked Theo in the first place – or that Brett is about to finish what he started.

“Okay,” Brett says, claws springing free with a snick, “I underestimated you. I won’t make that mistake twice.” Something about the way he moves is very non-human. Even though he’s walking on two feet and hasn’t shifted either, Brett looks more like a wolf than any of the other werewolves have ever done – just like Derek. The way they move in on a target seems more like they’re on the prowl for prey than simply walking towards someone they want to unleash a can of whoop-ass on. Being born a werewolf does seem to make a difference in how the wolf part is treated. Scott never embraced his wolf. It was always a creature to be controlled. That’s what he taught the others as well.

Derek, Peter, Brett, even Theo, they all have a different approach on the matter, and perhaps it’s the better one.

Brett blocks Theo’s punch with ease, holds his arm away from his face, and breaks his nose with a single hit. Theo’s head whips back like one of those punching balls. Brett lets go of Theo’s arm, and hits him again, follows as the other stumbles against his truck. He doesn’t stop there, instead Brett slices through Theo’s shirt and skin like it’s nothing but paper before aiming a punch to his gut causing Theo doubling over. He’s either exhausted from fighting Isaac or the power imbalance between Brett and him is much, much bigger than first anticipated. Theo doesn’t get a single hit in. He doesn’t even have the chance to get his feet back under him before Brett slams his head against the side of his car.

It's the last Theo can take. Clenching his jaw, he sinks to the hard asphalt, eyes firmly squeezed shut.

Stiles grinds his teeth when Brett raises his foot. “Stop!” It’s not that Theo didn’t deserve it. He _does_. After all the shit he’s pulled, he definitively does deserve to have his ass handed to him. But he’s on the ground. It’s _over_. “That’s enough.” And Theo saved him. He saved him multiple times. Sitting by, letting this happen- it feels wrong.

Scoffing, Brett puts his foot back on the ground. “You’re so lucky he’s a good person.”

Theo grins at him with bloody teeth. “You don’t know him,” he says pushing himself back onto his hands and knees, breathing heavily. Every movement is slow, deliberate. He’s in a lot of pain, that’s for sure, but that doesn’t seem to bother him all that much. “ _Good_ isn’t what I’d describe him with.”

“We don’t use our powers to hurt humans,” Brett drawls towering over him with his expressive height, and the way he says _humans_ sounds so fucking condescending Stiles wishes he could use the magic he's supposed to have. Just out of spite, just to show him that he's not as worthless as he thinks Brett thinks. He doesn’t need to hear that he’s _right_ about feeling weak. “So, the next time I see you act like that around him, _I’m_ not going to be nice.”

Theo and his roly-poly mentality really never know when to stop, “yeah, you’re a real Prince Charming, aren’t you?” He gets to his feet, torn skin on his stomach and chest slowly knitting itself back together. The jealousy Stiles feels at that feels like little creatures gnawing through his skin from the inside. His life would be so easy. People would stop treating him as if he’s a fragile porcelain doll. Pushing himself off his truck, Theo steps right into Brett’s personal space with a clear warning, “all your fame won’t protect you, Talbot, if you’re getting in my way.”

“You must mistake me for someone else if you think I’m impressed by your little promises,” Brett replies taking away the last distance between them so they’re standing chest to chest. “You just made this so much more interesting." The sheer glee in his voice is palpable. "Stay on your toes, squirt, we're going to see each other a lot more from now on.” When he moves as if to pet Theo’s head, his hand is slapped aside with a snarl. Brett only laughs, cruel and short. More a bark than actual laughter.

Stiles glances at Isaac, trying to dissect what he’s thinking about all that, but the other boy still won’t meet his eyes. Looking back up at Theo, Stiles hugs the book to his chest almost protectively. For some reason, he has the feeling that things are going to become so much worse from now on; and when Theo locks eyes with him, an inexplicable smirk brimming with smugness curling around his lips, the feeling refuses to get better.

“You sure Parrish is fine with that?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says gesturing in the direction of the drawers, “just wear whatever fits you.” With a last glance at Isaac, he leaves the bedroom and closes the door behind him. Although he’s talked a bit more on the way to Jordan's flat, Isaac still seems a bit off. His gaze is distant as if he's somewhere far away with his thoughts - somewhere he shouldn't be, someplace dark. 

Brett kicks his legs up on the coffee table and drops his phone on the couch next to him. “You know why he did it, don’t you?”

Stiles blinks. “Who? Theo?”

Shaking his head, Brett juts his chin in the direction of the bedroom.

“Oh.” Stiles sits down on one of the chairs closest to him and rests his chin on the backrest. “Yeah, I think I do.” It was not that apparent at first, or maybe Stiles didn’t make the connection because he was so utterly confused in that very moment – about Theo, their arrival and Isaac’s sudden aggression. But with a bit of distance, Stiles knows how it must’ve looked in Isaac’s eyes. The way Theo held him, the way he shoved him, the way he crouched down next to him trying to tell him he’s sorry. Maybe he was. Maybe he wasn’t. It doesn’t particularly matter. Theo manhandled him, and Stiles ended up hurt. That was enough for Isaac. Perhaps he even smelled the sudden fear creeping through Stiles’ veins when Theo touched his neck.

Brett raps his fingers on the couch’s armrest. “You told him about us?”

“Yeah.” Stiles fidgets with the sleeve of his shirt. “I know, I should’ve asked first but-“ he shrugs, bounces his left leg then gets back to his feet.

“It’s cool.” Brett crosses his ankles, but his eyes are attentively taking his surroundings in. “Isaac is a well-trained and loyal werewolf. After the Deadpool, he’s more than welcome.” It’s weird being here with Brett like that; especially after yesterday evening. They’re not even remotely what could be considered acquaintances or even friends, and it’s not like Stiles can just invite people in. This is Jordan’s flat after all. On top of that, Brett is hard to read. Although Stiles doubts the guy is out and about to eat him, he can’t tell what he _really_ wants. Is he doing this for Isaac? His pack? Himself? For fun? His zero-fucks attitude proves to be an aggravatingly amazing shield.

Stiles glances at the bedroom door, at Brett, the bedroom door and back. The likelihood of Isaac eavesdropping is high, but his curiosity gets the best of him. Pushing his concerns aside, he strides over to the sofa and plops down next to the werewolf who tips his head to the side, eyes roaming over his face and chest and shoulders in an almost appraising way. Stiles opens his mouth, closes it again and folds his arms over his chest. Turning away, he clears his throat but his mind goes blank. Why’d he come over here?

Brett drapes his arm over the backrest smirking. “You wanted to say something?”

Heat creeps into his cheeks. _Fuck_. Steeling himself, Stiles turns back but the smirk on Brett’s lips remains and does nothing to help his situation. He jumps to his feet again, ignoring the quiet laughter following him on the way to the kitchen, and rips the fridge open with an intensity that basically forces him to instantly grab something. Which defies his attempt at stalling. Checking the contents, Stiles grabs a can of Coke. There, that’ll do. Drinking is a perfect way to stall time seeing that his mouth is occupied with something other than talking.

Stiles slams the door shut and flinches hard enough to bump into the counter when he finds Brett standing directly in front of him. “Oooh,” he breathes taking a step back for some much-needed distance, “hey.”

Brett chuckles. “Hey?”

“I didn’t expect you there.”

“I’ve been thinking,” Brett says stepping close enough that their chests almost touch; the complete lack of respecting personal space seems to come with werewolf DNA, “since we’ll work together from now on, we should get to know each other a bit better.” _Get to know_ should mean talking about their hobbies and birthdays and plans for the future, but Brett makes it sound like he’s talking about something entirely else – and Stiles has no fucking clue how to handle that or if he’s misinterpreting things or if- Brett is so far out of his league, what the _fuck_ is he even thinking? And where is that thought even coming from?

 _Oh god_ , he needs space to breathe. He needs space. Yeah, _yeah_. Space should help. He hit his head pretty hard as well. That could explain a lot too.

“Bloody hell,” Isaac groans slamming the bedroom door shut, “give the guy some space, will you?”

Clicking his tongue, Brett takes a single step back and glances over his shoulder. “I was just making conversation.”

“You never make _just_ conversation,” Isaac retorts dropping onto the couch like a deadweight. “I’m starving, by the way.”

Stiles jumps at the chance to derail the topic. “We could order something.” Without hesitation, he spins around and grabs the menus sitting next to the fridge then pushes past Brett without looking at him. As long as he doesn’t know what the guy’s deal is, it’s probably a wise decision to keep a healthy distance to him; especially since he’s mostly in this to piss off Theo and while that’s a reasonable decision, he doesn’t want to drag others into the mess that stupid chimera personifies. Yes, Brett won that fight. No, it wasn’t fair. Yes, Stiles believes Theo has the potential to beat Brett – and it’s not exactly the greatest thought in the world.

Pursing his lips, Isaac grabs the notebook. “Where do you think that garden gnome got it from?”

“The Dread Doctors,” Stiles informs him trading the book against the stack of takeout menus.

Brett collapses onto the couch next to him, kicking up his legs on the coffee table as he did before. “The what now?”

 _Right_. Satomi’s pack only knows half the story. Stiles guesses, at least. He's not entirely sure how much Liam told Brett when they were looking for the hole in the woods. Satomi might be aware of everything going on here but since this isn’t her territory, perhaps she doesn’t get involved. Stiles doesn’t blame her, not _really._ Her job as alpha is to keep her pack safe no matter the cost. If she judges that helping them fight this mess is far too dangerous for her inexperienced pack, she has the right to stay away. But with Scott gone and the rest of the pack scattered to the four winds, what option does he have?

“Let’s order something to eat, then I’m going to tell you everything.”

Isaac and Brett prove to be surprisingly patient listeners. They don’t ask many questions, nudge him back in the right direction when he loses his train of thought and include Jordan in the conversation the second he arrives to get a bit more insight on the whole hellhound debacle. Cerberus seems to stick to his word as well because not once did Stiles get the feeling that Jordan wasn’t present. Which is good. That’s a step in the right direction.

Kind of.

“Okay, so, that short-arse is both wolf and coyote and... technically still human?” Isaac asks around a slice of pizza and a deep scowl. He definitively doesn’t need to say _what the fuck_ to make abundantly clear that’s exactly what he’s thinking right now. Which is fair. He gets all the advantages without any disadvantages. Any werewolf would be pissed about that.

Stiles picks a piece of tomato from his slice and drops it back into the box. “We don’t know how it works either.” Especially since ninety-eight percent of the chimeras didn’t even initially survive. All of them died because their bodies shut down. Everyone aside from Theo and, potentially, Donovan.

Jordan agrees with a shrug.

“That punk-" Brett starts then stops shaking his head.

Isaac’s scowl deepens and he shakes his head. “I reckon you’re thrilled,” he says nibbling on his pizza and eyes his packmate sceptically. “You were the one complaining about a lack of challenges.”

“I was talking about lacrosse.”

“You sure loved beating the shit out of Theo.”

“He was an ass-"

Stiles rolls his eyes and glances at Jordan for a moment, who flips a page of the book lying on the table in front of him and Isaac. It’s an odd picture seeing the two with their heads together, eating their pizza and reading through the scribblings together. Sometimes, they even scrunch up their face in very similar manners or share a look that clearly says ‘ _Stiles will either kill himself or everyone around him_ ’. Their confidence in him is refreshing and exactly what he needs. Fantastic. 

Brett’s gaze drags over his cheek, tangible and sharp. Is this going to happen every single time he'll look at him?

“What?” Stiles' stomach contorts.

Isaac and Jordan look up from the grimoire.

“Just wondering,” Brett says flicking his fingers against the edge of his pizza box, “what makes you so special.”

Although Stiles is very aware that his words aren’t supposed to be insulting, yet he can’t help but be at least a little offended at them. He straightens, juts his chin in the air. “I’ve been around you wolves long enough-“

“That’s not what I meant,” Brett interrupts him, corners of his mouth twitching into the tiniest smirk. “I get why it didn’t choose Deaton but a true alpha?” A frown clouds his handsome features. He’s definitively not the first who asked that question. Sure, Stiles has been connected to the nemeton too, but so is Scott. Or was. And what about Deaton? What did he do? Aside from half-assing every answer he's ever given. 

“All that glitters is not gold,” Isaac mutters bending over the book again and flips a page. He ignores everyone staring at him. Sure, Stiles knows that perfect isn’t exactly an adjective fitting for Scott. No one here is perfect. They’re all messy and broken and make a terrible decision. _Still_. Isaac always seemed to like Scott. “Anyway,” Isaac says a tad too loud for it to be completely normal, “this looks easy enough.” After spinning the book around so Stiles can read it, he points at the top of the left page. The previous owner’s ramblings have been refined with a few drawings; in this case a little box with a lock. On top of it are the words ‘ _no snooping around in here, Mom’_ written. It’s evident that the book belonged to a teenager with some serious drawing skills but no ability at all to explain anything. It reads like a diary, and it helps him only so far. The spells sound fishy. More like a high schooler trying not to fail the poetry part of their English class than a serious witch. But the Dread Doctors got the book. It can’t be completely useless, right?

Unless Theo lied to him.

Stiles bites the inside of his cheek. He probably won't figure it out until he tries something. “Do we have a box or something?”

“Don’t do this at home.”

Quirking a brow, Stiles glances at Brett. “Are you joking? Is that supposed to be a joke? Because your humour is so dry, I-“

“I’m dead serious.” Brett leans back in his chair. A tiny smirk curls around his lips but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Not with Brett. It’s infuriatingly hard to read him. Theo was overconfident in his manipulation. He played two games – the little boy he used to be when he was around Stiles and the soft helpful werewolf when he was with the others. But Brett? It seems as if he simply _is_ this way; infuriatingly calm and pretentiously disinterested.

Stiles hates it.

Brett wipes his hand on a napkin and sighs. “There’s a reason witches need a coven,” he says leaning back in his chair with an air of annoyance; like Stiles is stupid for asking questions that should be obvious. But Jordan and Isaac blink at Brett just as expectantly as Stiles is staring at him. He rolls his eyes and explains further, “like werewolves witches need to learn control over their powers. That’s why an alpha or the coven elder is the most important person in a young werewolf or witch’s life. They’re more than a teacher but in essence, they help them learn everything they need to know. It’s easier for werewolves. We just have to learn control.” Brett props his head on his hand, glances at him with a quirked brow briefly then picked a piece of beacon off his pizza. While he chews, Stiles realises that he’s never heard him talk this much in one go – especially without cussing or threatening someone. “

Isaac and Jordan chew thoughtfully on their respective slices of pizza. They got the same, Stiles realises, and with extra cheese and _only_ pepperoni. It's not unusual but- _huh,_ it is kind of funny.

“Witches,” Brett continues tapping a finger against his cheekbone, “need to learn spells, how to write their grimoires and, most importantly, how to channel their power.” At this, he turns to Stiles. “You don’t only have to learn how to channel your power, you also need to learn how to use it in moderation.” Eyes flashing yellow, he places two fingers against the crook of Stiles' arm. Like yesterday, he traces an invisible line furrowing his brows. “This magic is bound to your life now. Use too much and you die.”

His stomach drops. What? Die? How? How- what- no. No. That's impossible, right? The nemeton dies. Not he. Not the one who gets the power. That's not how it's supposed to be. 

Jordan drops the pizza. “No.”

“Yes,” Brett says flicking his finger against Stiles’ forearm, “it’s a fact.”

Shaking his head, Stiles turns back to look at Brett. “I thought it’s all just a theory.”

“Well, since _someone_ -“ he doesn’t even try to be subtle as he shifts his attention back to Isaac, who clears his throat loudly and seems highly interested in counting the pepperonis on his pizza- “didn’t shut up last night, Lori got involved and that, of course, ended in Satomi sitting me down for a long history sessions about a _special_ kind of sparks.” Which means that it hasn’t happened the first time, right? Somewhere out there, a nemeton died and gave somebody all of its power. And that person didn't die because they had time to write it down, they had time to tell someone. It can't be that dangerous. It _can't_ be.

Brett licks his lips, taps his finger against Stiles’ arm again. “I can train you.”

“No-“

“Listen, Deputy, with all due respect-“

Jordan points at Brett. “I will not allow you to train Stiles in anything, understood? His dad- the _sheriff_ is not going to like it.”

Stiles gapes at Jordan. Yes, he’s part of the family, has been for a while, and Stiles doesn’t want to have it any other way. But it seems like having a bigger family, a- a _big brother_ seems to come with a whole new can of obstacles. Because now he doesn’t only have to fight his dad, now he has to get through a sheer unmovable force of overprotective and constantly worried family members who also happen to be working for the police. Having a sheriff as a father is exhausting enough. But this? Stiles can’t argue with two people of the same mindset. “Jordan, I can make these decisions on my own.”

“When the nemeton dies, Stiles _will_ possess its power. The sooner he learns-"

But Jordan doesn’t want to hear it. “I said no, and that’s the end of the discussion.”

Isaac and Brett glance at each other.

“You know what’s out there,” Stiles insists curling his hands into fists, “if I learn this, I can defend myself.”

“You don’t care about defending yourself,” Jordan says with a finality in his voice that makes Stiles clench his teeth. “We talked about this before. You’re reckless, and you’re going to get yourself killed.” Folding his arms over the table, he looks first at Isaac then Brett - and he looks so much like his dad, it's no surprise the two like each other so much. “It’s a school night, isn’t it?” That’s certainly one way to throw someone out, and neither boy needs to be asked twice.

While Brett pushes away from the table with an almost crude purse of his lips, Isaac smiles at Stiles, small, pitying. “See you,” he mumbles then glances at Jordan who looks back at him with slightly narrowed eyes. “I guess,” he adds darting around the table to follow Brett out of the flat. Before he pulls the door shut behind them, Isaac turns around one more time with a frown. His gaze rests on Jordan longer than on Stiles, even skips back to the other again. It's hard to tell what's going through his head. Impossible. 

But then door falls shut, and Stiles is alone with Jordan and anger throbbing in his veins. He curls his hands around the edge of the table to stop himself from slamming them onto the table again. It doesn't help. Won't help. Stiles jumps to his feet.

“Where are you going?” Jordan doesn’t smile, and his tone hasn’t softened. Fucking hell, he's really fucking pissed. Why is he so angry? Shouldn't he be relieved that there's a way for Stiles to defend himself? To fight back? To do _something_? Just because he cares about him, just because he's family doesn't mean he has the right to boss him around.

So, he's lashing out, even though Jordan doesn't deserve it, even though he means well. “It’s a school night, isn’t it?” Stiles snaps shoving the chair aside before striding off to the bedroom, not waiting for a reply. Fucking _asshole_. He has _no_ right to tell him what to do. He has no right to prohibit him from learning how to fight. Grinding his teeth, Stiles slams the door shut. He _will_ learn whatever there is to learn about controlling the nemeton’s power. That’s his right. It's what he has to do, what he owes this fucking town. But Brett probably won’t be too interested in training him after that. Not that Stiles blames him. People don’t usually have any interest in getting in trouble with the law, even more, if they don’t do anything illegal.

But he needs help; the help of somehow who knows, of someone who-

_Theo._


	10. a brother's regret

When he leaves the bedroom the next day, Stiles finds Jordan sitting at a breakfast-ready kitchen table. That’s exactly the last thing he wants right now – especially seeing that Jordan looks about ready to have a serious conversation, and Stiles isn’t in the mood for that. Not even a little bit. He threw his dignity and pride away to call Theo for help. That was painful enough. His decision is _made_. He will learn how to handle this magic no matter what Jordan is going to say.

Staring at the door, Stiles hoists his backpack further up. “I have track.”

“We’re having breakfast." Jordan points at the empty chair opposite him.

Stiles tries to keep his annoyance in check. “I need to catch the bus.”

Jordan's smile is completely unfazed by the response. “Not when I drive you.”

Tossing his backpack next to his chair, Stiles sits down and crosses his arms. This reminds him of the day after he’s gotten drunk with Scott, and his father sat him down the next day for a stern talking. He’s still surprised he wasn’t grounded until the end of days. Instead, he was told that his dad trusts him and that he's aware every teenager does it at one point, but that he’s sure there’s no need to be worried about such irresponsible behaviour again. It was worse than being grounded which, thinking about it now, was probably the point.

Folding his hands around his coffee mug, Jordan sighs. “I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did,” he says sounding nothing but genuinely upset with himself. He can barely meet Stiles' eye now that they’re sitting opposite each other. “I’ve never been responsible for anyone but myself, and with you- with all of this- it’s a lot to take in at once.” He taps the mug with his thump, twists his lips into an angry line. “I’m just scared I won’t be able to protect you.”

Stiles can’t help himself but laugh. “Jay,” he says leaning forward, “you’re a hellhound.”

Jordan smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “The nemeton draws creatures in. Once it’s dead-" it’s going to be him. The thought hasn’t quite occurred to Stiles but Jordan is right. The moment the nemeton is dead, _he_ is going to be a beacon for the supernatural. But isn’t that even more reason to learn how to wield its magic? Shouldn’t they make sure he can defend himself before it’s too late? “I guess I hoped you would look for a way to lock the power away first, is all.”

“If there’s a way.”

“It was dormant, wasn’t it?”

Fair point, but still. “Listen, I-"

Jordan cuts him off, “I have a brother, did I ever tell you that?”

Stiles opens his mouth but ends up simply shaking his head. No, he didn’t know that. He can’t even remember if Jordan has ever spoken about his family or life previously to Beacon Hills. All he knows is that he used to be military and that he wouldn’t be alive if not for the one in a million chance of Cerberus being around the second Allison, Scott, and Stiles practically kickstarted the nemeton’s power. “No,” he says after a short silence, “you never mentioned anything. Not that you had to. I mean-"

“I never met him.”

Wait _what_? Stiles blinks. “ _Never_?”

Jordan shakes his head. “No, we moved to England when my mom’s parents fell ill. I was six or seven my parents’ marriage was already strained before the move.” Without meeting his eye, Jordan tears a piece off a waffle. He stares at it. “She left him during her pregnancy, and I had to go back to the States with my father.” Choosing to say _had to_ tells Stiles much more about the kind of relationship Jordan had with his father than he might have been willing to tell. “I-" frowning slightly, Jordan decides to stall by chewing on the waffle; his frown deepens further. Stiles sips on his coffee, trying his hardest to look like he isn’t on the edge of his seat. “Sometime after I left home, I tried to find my mother only to figure out that she’s dead. My brother was living with my father but...” Jordan clenches his jaw, knuckles white around his mug. “I should’ve gone back for him.” His voice is so quiet, Stiles can barely understand a word he’s saying. “My father- I should’ve gone _back_. I should’ve protected him, but I ran as far and as fast as I could.”

Stiles’ stomach contorts. He wants to say something, anything, but his mouth refuses to work. What _could_ he even say? Is there anything that would make it better? Easier?

“I can’t make the same mistake with you.” Jordan looks at him, open and sincere and helpless; a young man haunted by mistakes he made as a child. It’s not his fault. It clearly isn’t but telling Jordan won’t make the feeling go away. What choice did he have? Even if he went back to his father, met his little brother – he couldn’t have known if he had gone with him; and nobody would’ve given an eighteen-year-old boy about to join the military custody of a ten-year-old. That’s not how the world works. And if his brother had ended up in the system… Stiles heard some stories from his dad. It doesn’t always come with a happy end.

No matter how bad he feels for him, Stiles won’t back down from his decision. This is going to happen. He is going to learn how to use his magic. “I have a chance to help, Jay. I can’t let this go to waste.”

Jordan nods. “I understand that, and I’m going to help you. Not with magic but with fighting.”

Stiles raises his eyebrows. “Really?”

“Really,” Jordan agrees, and he slumps into his chair as if all the tension left his body all at once. His grip around the mug doesn’t loosen. He doesn’t look relieved. He looks defeated. “Not all monsters are supernatural.” His eyes dull for a moment, directed at something far away, lips pressed together in a line.

Stiles recognises a nasty case of bad memories if he sees one. “Thanks, Jay.”

Although Jordan nods, Stiles isn’t quite sure he’s heard him.

Stiles curls his hands into fists. “I would break your face if it didn’t kick me off the team.” Despite his previously relatively lax behaviour concerning violence between two people of similar strength, Coach started their first practise with a reminder than any sort violent behaviour would end up in their immediate removal from the team. Theo, who, of fucking course, returned to his condescending behaviour the second Stiles asked him for help, makes this a really hard task.

“You would break your hand if you tried,” Theo reminds him crossing his arms.

Taking a deep breath through his nose, Stiles tries his hand at composure. An attempt was surely made for about two seconds, then he steps closer and jabs the stupid wand in Theo’s face. “Do you think your eye will grow back if I pick it out with this?” Stiles doesn’t want to know who Theo bullied to get this fucking thing within a day. He doesn’t care if he drove around town to make a stupid joke or a point. Without a doubt, Stiles will use this wand to do some serious damage the second he gets a chance.

Theo snatches it out of his hand. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

“Listen, you little shi-“

“Yo, dickweed,” Gabe yells clapping his hands, “how about you continue playing tough guy after your sprint?”

Stiles rolls his eyes heavenward. So much for being nice to him in elementary school when everybody else mocked him because of his accent. Kindness doesn’t do shit, obviously. He doesn’t even know why he’s trying. “Screw you, Gabe,” Stiles says turning around. “Focus on your running because you _suck_.” Although he isn’t the worst on the team, he doesn’t belong to the top five either. Stiles, on the other hand, is currently the fastest on the team – at least until Theo the fucking cheat decides to use his powers. Or until something supernatural fucks him up. After being bitten in the shoulder, beaten up and possessed, something is bound to happen to his legs. Who knows, maybe Donovan manages to go through with his threat eventually.

Perhaps he should be less pessimistic.

With a last glance at Theo, Stiles walks over to the running tracks and tosses the wand to the ground. Fucking _Theo_. Seriously. Pushing the thoughts aside, he gets into the start block. Stiles takes a deep breath, shifts into position. He doesn’t look up, focuses on his body, his breathing, the position of his hands, his-

A drop of blood hits the ground; one that came from his face. Probably his nose. _Fuck_. Stiles presses a finger against the underside of his nose, fighting the instinct to tilt his head back. He hasn’t had a nosebleed in forever, getting it now doesn’t feel like a good sign. “Shit.” Checking his hand, Stiles gets to his feet. Yup. Definitively blood. Fantastic. Exactly what he needs right now.

“Okay.” Familiar hands find his upper arm and shoulder. “We should go to the nurse.”

Stiles doesn’t even struggle when Theo leads him away from the group. It would be a fruitless endeavour because usually, the guy doesn't let go of him once he has him in his grasp; and knowing Theo, he won't lead him anywhere near the school nurse or any medical personal at all. “We’re not going to the nurse, are we?”

“ _Nope_.”

“What the _fuck_ is that?”

“Never seen a mural before?” Theo asks crossing the Dread Doctors’ operating theatre. It’s not as far into the tunnels as Stiles expected it to be but it is just as unsanitary as anticipated. Looking around here, it’s not a surprise so many of the chimeras died. They probably infected themselves with every single germ in existence – or at least those hanging around down here. And whatever lives around here can only be nasty. Theo is the perfect example.

Stiles glances from Theo to the mural. “Well, not _here_.” And not one as ominous as this one. It makes him anxious. Or maybe it’s being alone with Theo somewhere he neither has any reception nor chance to get away. “Is that… the thing we run into in the school’s hallway a couple of nights ago?”

“La Bête du Gévaudan,” Theo replies sounding almost bored. His fingers find Stiles’ arm, a gesture that seems to be happening on autopilot by now, a gesture he’s gotten very used to seeing how often it happened. Stiles' feet follow the silent instructions immediately. “I suppose you know the story.” The question is, who doesn’t know the story? The monstrous wolf who supposedly killed a lot of people in France way back when. A hypothesis is that it was a pack of wolves hunting the area but seeing that werewolves are very much real, a giant beast doesn’t seem that far-fetched - even less after seeing Peter's alpha form.

“And the other creature is-"

Theo lets go of his arm. “A hellhound.”

Cerberus, maybe? It seemed like it knew a lot more than it lets on. Probably because it’s a bajillion years old.

“Sit.” Theo hoists himself onto the examination chair, straddling it and points towards the entrance. “Facing that way.” Smirking, he pats the empty space right in front of him.

Stiles doesn’t like where this is going. Not only does it not feel like the best idea to turn his back to that shady chimera, but there’s also not a lot of space between them either – and Stiles really values his personal bubble. After all, he has it for a reason; reasons like this, for example, where an attractive but up-to-no-good piece of shit plays games instead of helping him. He crosses his arms and checks the mural again. “What does that mean?”

Clapping his hands onto the examination chair, Theo leans forward. “Remember your nosebleed?” he asks quirking a brow. “I doubt we’ve got time for twenty questions. So-" without further ado, Theo grabs the collar of his shirt and yanks him down. “ _Sit down_.” His eyes flash with less humour and a lot more impatience than before.

Stiles swallows, straightens his shirt then lowers himself onto the very edge of the examination chair. It took a second until Theo’s warm body pressed against his, and Stiles wondered what he was expecting to happen. Chimera or not, that werewolf DNA always means as much body contact as possible. Maybe it’s a scent thing. Well. No. Probably not. Brett wouldn’t have any interest in rubbing his scent onto him. Theo, on the other hand, does it purely to fuck with Scott and Malia.

Who are still not back. Which isn’t the best sign.

“Okay,” Theo whispers, and the warm breath ghosting over Stiles' cheek makes him flinch. The barely audible chuckle does not help at all. “I want you to close your eyes and take a deep breath.”

Every fibre of his body wails and begs him to do the complete opposite. Do not take a deep breath. Do not close your eyes. Do not trust anything Theo is telling him to do. But this is a win/win situation. Theo helps Stiles to help himself. In the end, Stiles will be the one holding all the cards. After all, he’s the one with the magical connection to the nemeton. He will _become_ the nemeton. At least, if Jordan’s right. Something that’s actually pretty likely considering Cerberus told him everything. Presumably.

Stiles rolls his shoulders, swallows heavily and closes his eyes. It doesn’t change anything. He’s not calm or collected or feels different than before.

Theo presses his hands against Stiles’ upper arm without warning. “Keep breathing,” he whispers, his voice too soft and gentle for his usual self, “in and out. Relax.” His hands move to Stiles’ shoulder, thumbs digging into his muscles. That feels better than it probably should. “You’re tense.”

“Shut up.”

Again, Theo laughs. Stiles doesn’t hear the sound as much as he feels it. “You don’t have to be nervous. I won’t bite.”

The decision to ram his elbow into Theo’s sternum was one of the worst he’s had in a while. Instantly, a pang of pain travels from his funny bone up and down his arm. Stiles can’t keep himself from wincing. “ _Fuck_.”

“How about you trust me.”

“ _Trust_ you?” Stiles asks turning around on the examination chair until he could at the very least look at Theo – and, hoo boy, that exasperated expressions is something he’s going to hex off his stupid face one day. “The guy who murdered his sister when he was _nine_?” Although to be fair, he doesn’t have any proof of that. He’s just going out on a limb here and throws it out in the open. Maybe to prove a point. Maybe to see if Theo’s actually bothered by it.

And by the looks of it, he _is_. “Yeah,” Theo says not without heat behind his voice. _Genuine_ heat. “I was nine years old. I- _I_ also believed-“ he’s wringing for words, wringing for an explanation “-that a guy in a red suit came down the chimney to deliver presents.”

Stiles squints at him. _What_? That analogy went down the drain long before Theo even started it.

But the guy isn’t finished. “So, when three people in leather masks showed up and- and said that my sister wanted me to have her heart, I believed them too.” His voice rises with every word. Although Theo doesn’t yell at him, it very much feels like it. His anger, too, feels strangely genuine. But so did his sadness when he told Stiles about finding her in the creek, about not being able to protect her. Did he lie to him? Did he _really_ lie to him? Or did he find her and just didn’t do anything?

What’s the truth here?

That he killed Tara. _That_ ’s the truth. It has to be. That’s Theo sitting right in front of him. _Theo_. Stiles shouldn’t have come here. What was he thinking? “So, together you gutted and killed her.” He makes a dismissive gesture. “That’s a beautiful story.”

Theo grabs him and spins him back around. His grip is painfully tight around his wrist. “I watched her fall in the water and freeze to death in minutes, do you think I had any idea what was going on?” His voice trembles and it’s impossible to turn away from the anger shining in his eyes.

Stiles knows he’s pushing him not only him but also his luck. He knows he shouldn’t do it, but he can’t help it. He _has_ to know the truth. “I think you pushed her,” he says in a low voice advancing on Theo as if that gives him any kind of advantage. There will be a moment even his favouritism isn’t going to save his ass any longer. “I think you liked it.” And right now might be it.

Theo’s eyes flash yellow for a second, then turn back to blue, then yellow again. Almost like he’s unable to control his shift. Maybe, for the first time, he can’t. His grip tightens as well, up to a point where it feels as if his bones are about to snap. Stiles grinds his teeth, wills every piece of his body to ignore the pain. But he can’t. A pained gasp escapes his lips and he grabs Theo’s hand, tries to free himself. “Let go of me.” It hurts. It really fucking hurts.

He grins, curls his fingers into the collar of Stiles’ shirt and yanks him down. Their faces are inches apart. Theo’s yellow eyes are nothing but two blurry orbs. Far too close. Far too dangerous. “Sit down,” Theo snarls shoving him back towards the examination table. “I said it once before, and I hate to repeat myself.” Theo crowds him towards the chair, grabbing the edges once Stiles sits and most definitively relishes in the rapid heartbeat he’s undoubtedly listening to. No matter how hard he tries, Stiles can't stop himself from inching backwards when Theo leans in close. “Even if you don’t like me,” he says in a voice that’s more threatening than anything else as he curls his fingers tightly around Stiles’ chin, “even if you don’t trust me, I’m still gonna be looking out for you.”

Those words aren’t particularly easy to believe, and it’s even harder for Stiles to lock eyes with Theo, nodding as if he believed that’s the truth, that he doesn’t believe he's constantly walking a fine line between just right and too pushy.

“I only want what’s best for you, Stiles,” Theo whispers smiling again with his eerie calm. “You know that, right?” So many red flags. _So many_. Those are the words and gestures of every abusive asshole in the history of abusive assholes.

Stiles swallows. “You want my power,” he whispers despite his frantically beating heart, despite his sweaty palms. “That’s all you care about.”

With a chuckle, Theo pats his cheek. A condescending gesture causing anger to overshadow Stiles’ fear. “The moment the Dread Doctors figure out where the nemeton’s power went, they’re going to come after you. Because without the nemeton, they won’t be able to re-create their beast. They’re stressing out. Once the power’s gone, their chance is as well. Parrish can’t save you all the time. I can’t either.” He leans closer again, and Stiles doesn’t find it in himself to inch away. “So, I’m going to make sure you will be able to defend yourself.”

“Why me?” His voice doesn’t cooperate, the question so quiet Stiles barely hears himself ask it.

Theo’s thumb brushes against his thigh. This time, it’s deliberate. This time, Theo wants him to know. “Does it matter?” he asks climbing behind him onto the examination chair. Every inch of his chest touches Stiles’ back, thighs pressed against his thighs. Theo returns his hands to his arms, runs his palms down to his elbows and up to his shoulders ever so slowly.

Stiles’ breath catches in his throat, and he swallows again, tries to breathe in deep.

Theo places his hands on Stiles’ thighs, chuckles when Stiles curls his own into fists. “You don’t have to be afraid of me,” he whispers dragging the index finger of his left up his thigh, his hip, and chest until he places it right over his still rapidly beating heart. “I’m on your side.” To top it all of, Theo props his chin on his shoulder, chuckles again. “Just relax.”

The anger returns, sharper than before, more in focus. Stiles feels it with every beat of his heart. He can feel his blood pumping, can feel heat crawling down his arms, pooling in the palms of his hands. “Let go.” It’s a burning sensation, nothing like he’s ever felt before.

Theo laughs. “I said relax.”

“And I said _let_ go.”

The heat becomes more prominent. A fire in his veins. His nails dig into the palms of his hands. Grinding his teeth, Stiles forces his fingers to open one by one.

_I can use my magic like a shockwave._

Another chuckle. “You wanted me to help.”

Stiles blinks.

 _It all happens in here_.

“Now, let me help.”

He takes a breath, tries to focus, tries to get his mind to picture it. “Go away.” His voice is barely louder than a breath, but the impact is immediate. The burning heat leaves his body all at once. That’s all he feels. That’s all there is – until Theo is abruptly hurled across the room. Stiles’ hears the thud when he slams against the wall, hears the uncanny, unmistakable crack of a bone snapping in two. There’s no cry of pain. No scream. No other sound but a second _thud_ when Theo hits the ground.

Stiles takes a breath, licks his lips. A metallic tang spreads through his mouth. Swallowing, he uses his sleeve to wipe the blood away from his nose before he gets up from the chair.

The silence is interrupted by laughter. Quiet. Short.

Cold.

Slowly, Stiles turns around, arms folded tightly over his chest. Theo stands up, cradling his arm against his chest. Despite his ill-placed humour, his expression is painful. Not that surprising seeing that part of his spoke bone was sticking out like a staircase. It's disgusting, and Stiles' fault. He did that. He hurt him. He threw him across the operating theatre and broke a bone by with the simple strength of his imagination. That's a lot. That's- he can't learn control with Theo. He can't. Clearing his throat, he takes a step back. “Coming here was a mistake.”

“Why?” Theo asks simply pressing his bones together and shakes out his arm as if nothing at all happened. Just like that, Stiles feels weak again. “Because it _worked_?” There's an edge of impatience in his tone, and when he takes a step towards his, Theo raises both arms as if to frame Stiles' body. “Look at your powers. You can do whatever you want. If I teach you-"

Stiles shakes his head. “I don’t think-"

“Let me paint a picture for you,” Theo snaps, and his patience vanishes instantly. He shoves Stiles against the wall, gets into his face, fingers digging into his upper arms. “The nemeton is dying, and the second the Dread Doctors figure out you’re harnessing its powers, they are going to hunt you down and lock you into one of their little test tubes and use you as their personal power source right up until the moment they manage to create the beast that’s going to not only destroy Beacon Hills but most definitively kill every single one of your friends.”

With the cold wall at his back and Theo’s warm body right in front of him, Stiles struggles to find words. He can’t remember everyone being so up in his face all the fucking time. It’s too much. Far, far too much. He can’t handle all this physical contact. It’s stressing him out on top of all this chaos.

“I’m trying to save your life.”

Stiles grabs the collar of Theo’s shirt with both hands, fury burning underneath his skin. “You only want power.” No matter how often he tries to tell him that he wants to keep his ass alive, Stiles will never fall for that trap. Did he save him? Yes. Did hurt him? Yes. Does Theo value anything more than his own personal gain? Absolutely not.

Theo sighs. “What does it matter? In the end, you are going to stay alive.”

“If I want to be protected, I’ll ask Jordan.”

“Even a hellhound can be killed,” Theo tells him loftily.

Stiles shoves him but it’s as if Theo expected this reaction. Without much of a struggle, he spins them around and Stiles collides hard with the unforgiving ground. Pain echoes through his bones, travels from the palms of his hands to his shoulders, down into his back. “You’re a piece of shit,” Stiles snaps trying to ignore the sharp grin on Theo’s lips, trying to get away from the predator on top of him.

“I prefer pragmatist,” Theo whispers grabbing a fistful of Stiles’ shirt to keep him close and lean even closer. His body is warm against his, thigh between his legs – far too high between his legs. Stiles’ chest constricts; his breath gets stuck in his throat when Theo presses his mouth against Stiles' ear. "I think it’s time for a little reminder of who's in charge, isn’t it?”


	11. the beginning of the end

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I've slowed down with the updates. September & October are kind of a mess. There are weddings & birthdays left & right which keep me busy. 
> 
> A big thanks to everyone who lurks & reads & the kudos & comments. I <3 you all!

Before Theo can start the truck, a police car pulls up in front of them completely blocking the street leading away from the tunnels. Theo’s knuckles turn white around the steering wheel, his composure cracking for the flicker of a heartbeat. He takes a breath, relaxes into his seat and scoffs. “Fucking hellhound.”

Stiles opens the door and clambers out of the car preparing himself for a scolding of considerable magnitude. Not three hours ago, Jordan opened up to him. Now, here he stands being caught in the act skipping school like a fucking idiot. Fantastic, like he needs that on top of whatever the hell Theo has planned for his lesion.

Jordan slams his door with a resounding thud. “Are you _trying_ to get yourself killed?”

“Let me explain-“

“Every single supernatural creature with even the tiniest bit of connection to the nemeton felt whatever you just did,” Jordan snaps spreading his arms and curls his hands into fists; a strangely unhinged gesture Stiles has never really seen on him – anger doesn’t look real on him. It’s like watching a surreal dream come to life right in front of them.

Stiles feels as if he’s just stepped into a bucket of ice water. “You felt-“

“Yes.” Jordan takes a breath, closes his eyes and shakes his head. For a few moments, he stands there, stock still, eerie almost. “It was- like a tug, a call. Cerberus told me. Why didn’t _you_ tell me- Theo? Really?” Jordan’s thoughts seem to be jumpier than ever before like he struggles to sort his priorities out.

“Well,” Stiles mutters rubbing the back of his neck, “because you didn’t want me to.” That’s the truth but certainly the lamest apology ever.

“For a reason!”

“A reason you _kept_ from me!” Stiles throws his hands in the air. “How was I supposed to know?” They have to stop keeping shit from each other, especially if their situation is as messed up as dangerous as it is right now. Otherwise, they’re going to end up right where they left of – scattered into the four winds fighting with and against each other. Closing his eyes, Stiles sinks against the side of the ar. “I’m sorry, I should’ve told you.” _But so should’ve you._ He doesn’t say it, instead, he looks over his shoulder glancing at Theo who watches him with his lips twisted into an annoyed line. Did he know about others feeling it when Stiles uses the nemetons magic? Does he know who’s connected to the nemeton? Is _he_ connected to the nemeton? After all, the Dread Doctors seem to need its power to create new chimeras. Theo said they needed it for that monster.

Unless he lied.

Did he lie?

Jordan sighs. “I can’t stop you. All I ask you is to be sensible.”

Stiles turns back to look at him. “I wanna learn this. I wanna be able to do something.”

“Fine, _yes_ -“ Jordan clenches his teeth, closes his eyes then opens them again, shoulders sagging. “But don’t do it so fart out.” His attention shifts to Theo as well, and Stiles knows what else he’s saying with a single twitch of his lips. He’s not about to mention what Brett most definitely doesn’t want tot each him any longer, and whether or not Theo can be trusted, Stiles was able to do something, he was able to use _magic_. “Do it in my flat. We can clear out the living room-“ Jordan breathes out, eyes finding Stiles’ again. “Just learn it somewhere I can come to quickly in case something happens.” In case he’s used too much power. In case someone’s alerted who shouldn’t be alerted.

That’s a thought that makes Stiles so much more uncomfortable than he likes to admit. Aside from Jordan and Scott who’s connected to the nemeton? And how far does it reach? He knows its power radiates far enough to bring the Dread Doctors from San Diego to Beacon Hills.

But is that all?

A window rolls down with a quiet electrical humming. “You wanna say something to my face, Deputy?”

Jordan crosses his arms. The anger slipped away but he’s anything but relaxed or happy about the overall situation. Before he replies, however, Jordan takes a deep breath. “I don’t trust you,” he tells him after a moment. It’s not the most ground-breaking admission. Nobody, aside from his little chimera goons, trusts Theo. “If I see or hear anything I don’t like, I will lock you up for the rest of your life.” _Wow_ , that’s the best he can come up with?

Theo snorts out a laugh, and Stiles glances over his shoulder again. There’s a challenge in his blue eyes, laughing, sparkling, taunting. _Say something_ , it seems to demand, _now’s your chance to get rid of me_.’

It is.

He could.

Stiles clenches his jaw and looks at the ground. _Hypocrite_ , a voice snarls in the back of his mind causing his stomach to contort. He needs Theo. If he can teach him – and he can – he cannot risk losing him.

“We have things in common, Parrish,” Theo says leaning out of his window. “Caring about Stiles’ health is one of them.”

To be honest, there’s no amount of money Stiles wouldn’t pay to make Theo stop saying shit like that; especially after being so close. He can’t stop remembering the feel of his chest against his back, or his hand on his thigh.

Jordan doesn’t look convinced at all but since Stiles doesn’t say anything, he seems to decide to keep his thoughts to himself. At least regarding Theo. “Go back to school.” Jordan’s gaze is heavy on Stiles and his muscles remain tense like he’s ready to jump someone at any given moment.

Stiles feels something heavy settle in the pit of his stomach. “I’m sorry.”

“School. _Now_.”

“This is going to be very easy for you,” Theo says leading Stiles towards the cafeteria with a firm grip around his upper arm. “You’re going to spend the lunch period with me-“ which is enough of a punishment because Theo will make a point, he will use this to create drama and a highly ambiguous situation “-and depending on your behaviour, we’ll se who needs to assist me with your lesson.” He pulls him closer just before they reach the cafeteria. “I wouldn’t want it to be your dad, Stiles.”

Stiles curls his hands into fists. The hallways are still empty, but classes should end any minute. The last thing he needs is anybody seeing him murder Theo with his bare hands. As the sheriff’s only son, he needs to be a bit more creative. Then again, death will be too kind. “If you touch my dad,” he bites out in a low voice, “I’ll make you regret it.”

Theo glances at him, an eyebrow raised. “You’re lack of creativity is disappointing.”

Before Stiles realises it, his feet stopped moving, his temper flares up – there’s a voice in his warning him, telling him to breathe through it, to calm down, not to risk it. But when Theo stops and turns around looking at him with barely the hint of a smirk, whatever is left of his control drowns in a wave of burning anger. He lunges at Theo, fingers finding the collar of his stupid grey hooded cardigan although he’s itching to strangle the bastard right here on the spot. Theo hits the lockers with a resounding _bang_. “You want me to be creative?” Stiles gets right in his face, the grin egging him on even further. “The moment you lay a finger on my dad, I’m going to poison your furry ass with wolfsbane, strap you to you little operation table, cut you open with a butter knife and make you hug your organs to your chest.” Stiles relishes in the fact that Theo’s confident smile darkens a little. “I’ll get a chair and watch your supernatural healing trying to knit your body back together before I repeat it.”

The grin returns but it doesn’t reach his eyes, and it lost every ounce of confidence. “You think you can take me without your werewolf goons?”

Stiles shoves Theo further into the lockers. His knuckles press against his throat when he moves closer. “Don’t test me.”

The smile fades into a snarl. Within a second, Stiles finds himself pushed against the lockers, Theo’s arm pressing down on his collarbones, face far too close to his own. “You’re one call away from getting your father into trouble.”

Maybe it’s stupid and reckless, maybe he shouldn’t be pushing so hard – maybe he’s wrong – but Stiles is so fucking done dancing to other people’s tune. He’s done bowing down and sucking up and being afraid to step on anybody’s toes. Grinding his teeth, Stiles makes a decision. He’s right about this. Theo will not hurt his dad. “Go on then,” he says stomach twisting into a giant knot as doubt creeps in. What if he _is_ wrong this time? Swallowing around the lump in his throat, he pushes the thought away. “See where it gets you.”

Silence follows his words. Long, dreadful, suffocating silence that makes Stiles want to sow his mouth shut with a rusty needle. Why did he believe this was a good idea? Why was he-

Theo chuckles and loosens his hold on him, yet he doesn’t step away. “Guilty,” he says not without amusement dancing in his tone, “I’d never hurt your father.” Something about the way he says it makes it impossible to discern if Theo’s fucking with him or not. “Your parents were always kind to me. Your dad still is.”

Stiles shows Theo away. “You don’t get to talk to my dad, you liar.”

“Liar? I never lied to you.”

“You hurt him,” Stiles seethes advancing on him again. “You almost killed him.”

Theo narrows his eyes. “I saved his life.”

“You keep saying that to e and yet all you ever do is _lie_.” Stiles pushes him further away, surprised by his own strength when he sees Theo stumbling backwards struggling for balance. “You say you look out for me and proceed to ruin my life. You claim not to have hurt my dad after orchestrating an attack on him.”

“I have _not_!” Theo’s sudden outburst causes Stiles’ heart to skyrocket. For the flicker of a second, Theo’s eyes dart to his chest, almost as if to check if he heard that right. He presses his lips in a thin line, glances over his shoulder then steps closer with a raised brow. “I did not attack your father. I didn’t set up a trap for your father either, Stiles. I know how it looks-“ _but why would I lie now?_ He doesn’t have to say it for Stiles to understand. After coming clean and basically ruining every single chance to get under his skin, why would he decide to claim his innocence? It doesn’t make sense.

Stiles takes a breath, forces his shoulders to relax. “How’d you know my dad was hurt then? If you didn’t do it?”

“I was there.” Theo sounds as if all his words can be summed up to mean ' _idiot'_. With an additional roll of his eye, Theo turns and starts walking again.

Almost on autopilot, Stiles follows. “And you left him?”

“I told you, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, but after-“

“Before you keep crucifying me,” Theo interrupts him icily, “I’m currently wasting my and my pack’s time at the hospital to catch Donovan. Occasionally, I even have a heart-to-heart with dear old John.” Overly polite, he tips his head forward when he holds the door to the cafeteria open for him.

If Theo’s skin wasn’t made out of marble, Stiles would punch him. Instead, he stomps past him with a scoff. “Leave my dad alone. He needs to rest.” And having Theo hanging around in your near vicinity doesn’t sound particularly restorative.

“He’s not very happy with Scott at the moment,” Theo drones on, completely ignoring Stiles’ remark, which, to be fair, is as unsurprising as it is offensive. Theo most definitively has a severe case of selective hearing. He’s neither the first nor the last supernatural creature who needs a treatment for that.

Crossing his arms, Stiles contemplates which food might be the least offensive to his taste buds. “Shocker,” he replies eying the wrap and sandwich respectively, “If you’re telling him-“

“He started it,” Theo says passing him without glancing at today’s menu. “I take the Taco salad and he wants the wrap.”

Stiles whips his head around. _What_? This is not happening right now, is it? That fucker does not really believe that he can command what Stiles eats, does he? This absolute piece of shit. He’s doing this to get a reaction. Everything Theo does is simply for him to coax a reaction out of Stiles. He’s not about to get one. “I’d rather take the mashed potatoes.”

Raising his brows, Theo stares at him with a fucking _oh, really_ expression. Apparently, he didn’t hit his head hard enough when Stiles flung him across the room. What a shame. “Just the mashed potatoes,” Theo echoes in a tone that’s much more accusation than question. An understandable reaction. That mess will either put Jordan’s salty curry to shame or it won’t be seasoned at all. There’s not going to be an in-between. But he’d rather suffer through terrible mashed potatoes than admit Theo is correct in his lunch order. He’d never hear the end of it.

With crossed arms, Stiles stares in the opposite direction.

“Fine,” Theo says, the rolling of his eyes audible in his tone, “add the mashed potatoes.”

Two things went very wrong in the first minute as Stiles sat down at a table with Theo; Liam and Mason entered the cafeteria with their heads together. They both wore troubled expressions, and it didn’t get better when they spotted Stiles spending his lunchtime with the person who ruined everything – their lives, their pack, their friendships. Mason, luckily, didn’t seem to be as gullible because whatever he said to Liam didn’t lighten up his expression, but it helped to focus his annoyance at Theo instead of Stiles. That’s at least something. The last thing he needs is even more stress between his packmates, or rather what’s of them.

The second thing is the taste of the mashed potatoes. Although Stiles expected it to be salty, he did not, by any means, expected someone to have emptied a package of salt over the pot of mashed potatoes. No matter how hungry he is right now, there’s no fucking way he’ll eat another spoonful. This is torture. Absolute, endless torture.

And Theo, obviously, has the time of his life. “Stop laughing, asswipe,” Stiles snaps yanking the wrap from his tray. _Fucking hell_ , he’s starving. If he weren’t, he wouldn’t touch that thing with a ten-foot pole. Brett seems to have been right. After all, he mentioned something about the power being directly connected to him. So, it’s not particularly surprising that he’s this hungry after using a bunch of it all at once. Well, not _all_. But more than enough.

If he suddenly starts to eat like a normal teenager, his dad will notice immediately that’s something’s up. So, he probably shouldn’t keep this from him – he probably should be open about a lot of things. Nothing is worse than what happened with Donovan.

Stiles yanks the package away from the pack and moans quietly when he bites into it. _Fuck_ that thing’s great. Probably because there’s nothing you could possibly ruin. It’s just salad, sauce and Feta cheese. No seasoning.

His stomach would sing if it were able too.

“We should keep working as soon as possible,” Theo remarks around a mouthful of nacho salad.

Stiles swallows heavily and picks up a piece of salad as it threatens to fall out of his wrap. No food can be wasted today. “Jordan is training me tonight.”

“Parrish?” Theo frowns at him, fork paused halfway to his mouth. “What’s he gonna teach you?”

“Hand to hand combat. Probably. Not sure,” Stiles replies glancing at Theo out of the corner of his eye before focusing on his lunch again.

Theo snorts out a laugh. “You want to punch a werewolf?” It’s certainly a reasonable reaction, not that Stiles will be deterred by it. After all, he hit Theo pretty hard. His hand hurt like hell a couple of hours later – sometime after his dad was getting better and the adrenaline had drained – but Theo spit out blood without Stiles having fractured every single bone in his hand, so it’s not impossible for him to fight without weapons or magic.

That’s what counts.

A tray bangs against the table only seconds before a furious Lydia sits down opposite him. “I waited for you, Stilinski.” Her gaze is about to burn a hole in the side of his face. That’s cool. After Jordan, he totally needs someone else to go off on him. There’s also still the fucking lesson Theo intends to teach him. This is fantastic. Really. Perfect lunch. How is he supposed to behave as Theo wants him to when Lydia bears down on him?

Stiles chews his wraps with a scowl.

“Where have you been?”

He swallows, clears his throat. “I had a nosebleed.”

“He was with me.”

Lydia’s gaze drags from Stiles to Theo before jumping back again. She is awfully silent for a second, doesn’t move, doesn’t even seem to blink. When she takes a breath, Stiles expects her fury to rain down on him. Instead, she smiles and her attention shifts back to Theo. “I do hope," she says, her voice a sour drop in sugar-coating, “you didn’t hurt him again.”

Theo drops his fork. “ _Again_? When did it-“

“The claws in my neck were rather uncomfortable,” Stiles interrupts him before this could end up in an endless and terribly awkward rant about how everything Theo wants is to protect and keep him safe. Been there, heard that, no need for a repetition.

“ _He_ broke my arm,” Theo says sounding like Stiles insulted him and everything he cares about.

Stiles scoffs. “It was an accident.” A very satisfying one, to be honest. _That’s_ something he’d love to repeat multiple times with various body parts. Day and night. Stiles would skip school to do it.

Lydia drives her fork into her salad. Homemade, naturally. Her perfect skin certainly doesn’t come from cafeteria food. Stiles can still taste the salt from one spoonful of mashed potatoes. He’s probably overdosed on salt. “And how exactly does one break another person’s arm accidentally?”

Since Stiles is hindered speaking by a mouth full of food, Theo takes it ever so kindly upon himself to answer, “he doesn’t have a grip on his magic quite yet.”

“He doesn’t have-“ Lydia purses her lips, eyes palpable on him whenever her gaze doesn’t drill through Theo’s skull. This lunchbreak is derailing pretty fast. The worst about it? This feels normal. Everything about this lunchbreak feels like it did back when they sat together as a pack to converse about the latest asshole trying to ruin their hometown, take over or simply wreak havoc.

Stiles takes another bite of his wrap glancing at her as she does.

She quirks a brow. “Seems like using magic gives you an appetite,” Lydia notes not without the hint of a chuckle.

Swallowing a mouthful of salad and feta cheese, Stiles lowers the wrap. “Brett says it’s linked to me. I guess, the first thing I gotta do is learning how to control the amount of magic I use.”

“So,” Lydia says with a very weird undertone, “you’re training with Brett?”

“No,” Theo tells her louder than strictly necessary, “he’s training with me.” There’s a clear warning in his tone, sharp and dangerous, impossible to miss if you watched out for it. A demand for Stiles to agree. A reminder of their conversation. Depending on his behaviour, Theo will choose someone to punish instead of him because he _knows_ Stiles doesn’t give a shit about what happens to him.

Lydia shouldn’t be his first choice.

Stiles clears his throat, the situation and his body struggling with his hunger. On one hand, he’s losing his appetite simply thinking about lying to Lydia – even if it’s just for now, he’ll tell her once they're alone and safely out of earshot – but he’s also _starving_. Looking Lydia straight in the, hoping she’ll understand that she shouldn’t believe everything he’s saying, he nods. “Yeah.” His agreement feels spineless, weak, a coward’s reaction. He hates it, hates how he’s in this fucked up situation. Theo changed the game early on. When Stiles believed he knew his hand, he suddenly pulls a move Stiles hasn’t anticipated. Theo’s ‘I watch out for you’ is empty. It only means something as long as he’s useful.

“Excuse me?” Lydia puts her fork down and crosses her arms on the table. “Since when are we trusting Theo?”

Theo shifts next to him, his knee pressed against the side of Stiles’ thigh. Another not so subtle warning. Next, he’ll put his claws on his leg and threatens to cut his dick off. Stiles licks his lips. “Theo, he knows,” he says reluctantly fully aware that the excuse is pathetic before Lydia scoffs. _Theo knows_. Great. He used to be better at talking himself out of shit. So, he swallows around the lump in his throat, glances at Theo out of the corner of his eyes again and puts his wrap down completely. “Lydia,” he says trig to put as much sincerity in his tone as possible, “he saved my dad, he saved me…” Stiles trails off, knowing he’s not making it better considering all the batshit crazy stuff Theo did in-between these things. He has to tell her that he’s currently in kind of an awkward situation.

It isn’t very hard to read the pinch in her brows, the slightly narrowed eyes. “You should speak to Brett again,” Lydia says ignoring Theo’s very presence, “he will-“

“Do nothing.”

Stiles curls a hand into fist. “He’s on my side.” And every word feels like poison in his mouth. “He’ll help me.”

Lydia purses her lips, not even close to being convinced. Maybe she notices that Stiles doesn’t tell her the whole truth – something he should do but not now, not when it’s better this way. He doesn’t want her to get hurt again. He can still see her horrorstruck face, can still hear her trembling voice after she’s been paralysed.

After a moment, Lydia nods and her gaze darts back to Theo. “If you do anything to hurt him-“

“You need to stop assuming I’m out to hurt him.” Theo crosses his arms over the table and leans forward, lips twisted into a complicated smirk. “I’m not a hero but I’m with you for better or worse. Stiles and I settled our differences for the time being, didn’t we?”

They clearly did not.

“Yes,” Stiles says feeling strangely numb from all his lies. It’s just this lunchbreak. He can tell Lydia everything later today. Maybe he’ll text her the second he’s in class. He can’t leave it like that. He can’t let her believe that anything Theo’s saying has any resemblance to the truth, but he continues either way, “he’s a good teacher. First, try and I could use magic. That’s what I need. Fast results. The Dread Doctors aren’t going to wait.”

Although Lydia twists her lips into a disapproving line, her resolve crumbles. The last thing he wants is for her to believe him. “Are there any news?” She draws her eyebrows together, place with the sleeve of her cardigan. “Can we tell who they might be going after next?”

Theo picks his fork up. “A list of everyone ever having any sort of transplant would help.”

Stiles bites the inside of his cheek. “That could be a long list.”

“You’re sitting at the source.”

 _Melissa_. He can’t just walk into the hospital and ask her to hand over everybody’s medical records to him. _Yes_ , the know what they are looking for technically, but they can hardly comb through thousands of medical records. That’ll eat too much time; time they don’t have. Not even a little.

Lydia pulls her phone out and gets to her feet. “I know a better way to get those records,” she tells them tossing her purse for Stiles to catch, a clear command not to move an inch away from where he’s sitting. People really love to do that. Is he that much of a pushover?

Frowning, Stiles watches her stalk around the table, the clicking of heels following her out of the cafeteria. He sighs and massages his temple. Whatever she just came up with is probably better and hopefully more time-efficient than asking Melissa.

Theo places a hand on his wrist, thumb curling around his wrist. The touch burns and startles him, a touch too soft for a creature like him. What is more terrifying, however, is how used Stiles has gotten to it within the few days since Theo saved his father. It’s something his body barely reacts to any longer. His first instinct isn’t even to pull away. When he stands, it’s to follow. Now that he sits, his head turns towards him, his hearing tunes out everything else to hear what Theo is about to tell him.

“Lesson’s over,” he whispers, breath filing over his cheek.

Stiles’ heart jumps into his throat and he whips his head around, ready to jump to his threat and follow Lydia but Theo’s fingers dig into his thigh. Ache follows the treatment, quickly works its way through his veins. Grinding his teeth, Stiles settles back into his chair properly. He doesn’t turn around, however, and instead searches the room, tries to find one of the other chimeras follow Lydia out of the cafeteria – instead, his gaze catches on Scott in the entryway to the cafeteria. He’s standing alone. Stiles realises that he neither knows where he went or that he’s back, realises that their relationship cracks further and further – and that Theo, just this second, rips it apart. He fell for it. He _fell_ for it. Theo warned him. He fucking _told_ him there’s a lesson, and Stiles did what Theo expected him to do; followed along to smooth things over and protect his friends.

Without thinking, without looking back, Stiles ran face-first into it.

Theo leans close again, his lips painting words against the shell of his ear. “Welcome to the future. You can thank me later.”


	12. unwanted attraction

Stiles hits the ground hard. Every single bone in his body seems to vibrate with the impact, not to mention the pounding headache following for the last hour. He tastes the tang of metal on his tongue as Jordan’s knuckles decide his jaw as their unintentional target. It’s not his fault. Not even a little bit. Stiles should’ve either ducked or blocked the punch but he was briefly distracted. Which has become some kind of weird pattern during the whole evening. Whenever he should focus, his thoughts wandered back to Theo. Always fucking Theo. His touches and words. The breath in the back of his neck. The way his chest pressed against his back. His heartbeat.

“If you don’t concentrate-"

“I know.” Stiles sits up and wraps his arms around his legs, gaze dragging over the empty lacrosse pitch. It’s not the best place for their practises but it is far safer for Jordan’s furniture. It’ll be near impossible to break shit for him here in case he’s accidentally using his powers. Which he neither plans on doing nor hopes on happening to see that he’s done it once exactly when he wanted it. But nothing goes according to plan in his life at the moment. So, it's probably smarter to be safe than sorry.

Jordan crouches in front of him, brow raised. “What’s up?”

“Mh?” Stiles glances at him, massaging his throbbing jaw absentmindedly.

“You wanted to be taught,” Jordan reminds him crossing his arms over his thighs, “and now your head is someplace else.” His gaze is palpable on Stiles’ cheek, and it feels as if he’s peeling his skin away layer by layer to find out what exactly is going through his head. His dad has the same talent. Maybe it’s some sort of police gaze – or Jordan spends entirely too much time with his boss. Growing up with it, though, Stiles should definitively have a lot less trouble to resist. But ever since admitting to what happened to Donovan made him feel about a thousand pounds lighter, it has gotten harder to keep his thoughts to himself – especially around Jordan who makes him feel exceptionally safe.

Twisting his fingers into his sweatpants, Stiles lets out a long sigh. Speaking about this will be exceptionally awkward but it helped the last time; maybe it’ll help now too. “It’s Theo,” he admits quietly.

“What about Theo?”

Stiles is a bit surprised he didn’t ask ‘ _what did he do now_?’ because that seems like the most reasonable response to hearing that name. But maybe it’s just Stiles’ very own instinct. “I don’t know. I just-“ _can’t stop thinking about how his body felt so close to mine._ That’s probably not what Jordan wants to hear. That’s something nobody wants to hear. Ever. But it’s easier to talk to Jordan about it than anybody who was directly involved with Theo in the first place. He just needs to find a way to soften the blow a bit. “Is it normal to… I don’t know-“ he fidgets with his sweatpants and scowls “-find someone you hate attractive?” There, he said. Now he only needs to ignore the instinct to fling himself off the highest building in town.

Jordan huffs out a breath. “You’re attracted to Theo?” To his utter surprise, the question doesn’t even sound condescending in the slightest.

“I’m not attracted _to_ Theo.” Stiles curls his lips in a disgusted line. Seriously. “I just think he’s-“

“Good looking?”

This is what physically recoiling into his own body feels like, huh? Stiles has suffered through a lot of somewhat humiliating things, but this really takes the cake. Fucking hell, he should’ve never said anything. “This sounds exceptionally wrong when you say it out loud.”

Jordan pats his knee awkwardly even if the gesture is meant for comfort. “Don’t be too hard on yourself.” That’s easier said than done. “Physical attraction happens.” _Physical attraction happens_ , really? _That’s_ what he’s going with? This is a sentence going down in history as the most useless information he’s ever received. What the heck is he supposed to do with that? The words don’t make him feel better about anything. Seriously. Stiles shouldn’t even be thinking about Theo unless it involves fifty shades of dead chimera.

“You suck at pep talks.”

With a chuckle, Jordan stands up and offers him a hand. “Come on. You look like you need comfort food.”

“I don’t want ice cream.”

“I was talking about curly fries.”

Stiles stares at him for a second then huffs and grabs his hand. _Fine_. But only because he’s hungry anyway.

The weekend cannot come fast enough. Every single muscle in his body hates him with a passion, his head is pounding, and Theo is trying his hardest to get a rise out of him with his smirks and constant remarks and his general fucking presence. It’s messing with him. It’s messing with him more than he wants to admit, and the worst part about it is that Theo most definitively _knows_ exactly that his behaviour is causing minor meltdown at the moment.

“He has to go.”

Lydia clicks her tongue disapprovingly and taps her foot against the floor. It’s surprising she even sat down considering his mildly disgusted face. Well, she’s in the boy’s locker room it’s not like she should have particularly high standards for cleanliness or rosy scents. She’s made a good job of keeping her hands to herself, however, and now folds them in her lap. “Murder isn’t our first option, remember?”

Stiles tosses his shirt in his locker, wincing when it catches on the scab on Donovan’s bite. _Fuck_. “It’s only murder when they find a body,” he tells her pulling a t-shirt out and puts in on with a bit more care. “Otherwise it’s just a missing person.”

Raising a brow, Lydia shakes her way slowly. “We are going to use him the same way he intends to use you.”

“This is a terrible idea.” Especially if it involves being close to him. Stiles doesn’t exactly have the urge to jump him but the longer Theo thinks constant physical contact is a necessary method during their training, he’s going to get into trouble real quick – and Lydia should know that; he’s spilled the beans on the phone last night while Jordan ordered them the unhealthiest dinner they could find. His dad will disown him in case he ever happens to find out about that.

Lydia sighs; a sound strangely loud in the empty locker room. “I understand but with the things he knows…”

“Yeah, yeah.” Stiles yanks his shirt out of the locker and slams its door shut with a resounding bang. This makes sense; of fucking course, it makes sense, Lydia said it. But it makes more sense than he’s ready to admit. Especially after Scott saw them in the cafeteria yesterday and already made up his mind. Probably. Most definitively. Let’s be real, Stiles wouldn’t have read it correctly himself, even less if he listened in to their conversation. That wasn’t exactly confidence-inspiring, if he thinks about it. They need Theo. They need a pack of supernatural creatures working for them.

Her heels click audibly when Lydia gets to her feet. Stepping forward, she straightens his collar and says, “if it makes you feel any better, I wouldn’t say no to him either.”

“ _Oh my god_ ,” Stiles breathes, unable to prevent the nearly hysterical laughter tearing out of his throat. “We’re so fucked.”

Lydia hums smiling softly and runs her hands down his arms. “I’d call us teenagers with a great eye for beautiful people.” That’s not particularly confidence-inspiring either, to be honest, but Stiles doesn’t say anything because somewhere, in the deepest depth of her voice, he can hear the name Jackson ringing with every single word. They don’t speak about him unless Lydia brings him up herself. Despite everything that happened, despite only learning through the kanima incident how much they really love each other, despite not having seen each other for a while, a part of Lydia still clings to him. Stiles doubts Jackson is any different. She was his anchor. She turned him back. Feelings like that don’t just go away. In the rare times, they talk about him, and her laughter rings hollow and her eyes dim no matter how hard she tries to hide it, Stiles wonders what would be if Jackson never left, if he had stayed, if he came back. Maybe they’d be happy now. After all, they’ve gone through, they have the potential to be something better, something great if they put a bit of work into it. Perhaps asking Danny for help with the whole chimera list isn’t totally unselfish. Maybe a small part of her hopes Jackson will return upon hearing about what’s going on in Beacon Hills.

“Pretty psychopaths you mean.”

Lydia smirks. “Nice alliteration.”

“I aced my English Lit exams,” Stiles notes dryly grabbing his backpack, “it’s gotta be useful for something.”

With a quiet chuckle, she links their arms when they’re making their way out of the locker room and towards AP Biology. “Hm,” Lydia hums pursing her lips in contemplation. “Smart and handsome. Perhaps we should marry each other if we don’t find the right partners.” These words would’ve delighted Stiles not too long ago. His world would’ve bloomed, his heart burst into a million happy butterflies. Now, all he feels is a strange fondness about them being this special type of friends.

It’s also absolutely hilarious.

“Because _you_ won’t find your Mister Right.”

With another soft chuckle, Lydia nudges him in the side. “You’ll find the perfect person too.” That’s a lot of optimism seeing that his one and only relationship was a complete disaster in retrospect, and his taste in potential partners is clearly abysmal. Lydia, Derek, Malia? Ho boy. He certainly has a type. A large set of issues is the most essential part of it. More issues than he can handle with his very own set of issues. Being interested in Theo, even if just physically, isn’t exactly an upgrade; one that he desperately needs or maybe he needs a fucking cleanse.

He needs a normal life most of all.

But he can’t have that, not with this godawful Damocles’ sword dangling over their heads. Stiles runs a hand over his face, his good spirits slowly diminishing. They don’t have time to think about their future, about their love lives or rather the lack thereof. Thinking about anything not revolving around their current problem fills him with an abundance of guilt – enough to drown the population of a small town. It’s a miracle he’s still a more or less functioning member of society.

“Have you spoken to Kira yet?”

Lydia nods, her thumb tracing an invisible line on the fabric of his shirt. “She’s not coming back to school until Monday.”

“I get it,” Stiles says rubbing the back of his neck with a frown. “We still probably need her help.”

“I’m pretty sure we need everyone,” Lydia whispers pushing open the door to the classroom. It’s clear that she’s not only talking about Theo. She’s talking about Malia, about Liam and Mason, about Scott. Neither Liam nor Mason are going to pose much of a problem whether Stiles works with Theo’s pack or against them. For obvious reasons. Scott and Malia, however, won’t be easy to convince to work with Theo and his goons. They’re probably just as impossible to convince as Theo himself.

A hand presses against the small of his back, and Stiles almost jumps out of his skin. “Lydia,” Theo says standing entirely too close, “you’re always a sight for sore eyes.”

Raising a brow, Lydia turns to look at him. “What do you want?”

The hand on the small of his back doesn’t disappear, and Stiles can feel every single muscle in his body tighten. Scott is sitting a few feet away, head buried in his homework. Knowing him since elementary school, Stiles can tell by the rigid line of his shoulders and the stillness of his head that he doesn’t read a single word of what’s written in the book in front of him.

Theo chuckles. “Just curious how that contact of yours is doing. Any news?”

Lydia’s gaze drags over Stiles’ face. Even if she can’t see Theo’s hand, she probably notices the obvious proximity. “He’s not gotten back to me yet.”

A sigh falls from Theo’s lips. “Too bad.” His hand drops away and Theo pushes past him tossing his backpack on the desk next to Lydia’s seat before turning around again with a smirk that bags to be beaten.

It takes a second for his brain to remind his body that distance is good, that physical contact with that piece of shit chimera is nothing to be craved. Stiles grinds his teeth, eyes darting from Theo to Scott and back again. He’s torn between trying to save the rubble of his friendship and keeping the game going. Scott or Theo. The guy who wants to save everyone or the one who’s willing to kill whoever stands in his way. The gullible or the manipulator. He’s stuck between a rock and a hard place. No matter what he chooses, the consequences will be impactful.

His gaze flits to Scott one last time. He’s still not reading, still eavesdropping, still taking at face value what he saw yesterday.

Stiles swallows. “Don’t worry,” he says trying to sound as nonchalant as possible, “I’ll call you the second we have any news.”

Theo smiles. “I knew I can count on you.”

Lydia squeezes Stiles’ hand.

“Stiles!”

He stops in his tracks and turns towards his left. Liam and Hayden are sitting on the stairs. Close, leaning towards each other and yet not touching. Happiness looks different too.

Stiles wraps his fingers around the straps of his backpack. “Hey.”

Hayden offers him a tentative smile. “Hi.”

Liam wrings his fingers, eyes flicking back and forth between Stiles, Hayden and the floor. Almost softly, she places her hand on his thigh. Liam grabs it instantly, holding onto her like a lifeline. No wonder he was so desperate for her to talk to him again. A wolf needs a pack, especially one as young as Liam, and while Mason is keeping him afloat, one is not enough. A wolf needs _three_.

Stiles crosses the short distance and ushers the two to scoot over. They follow his command. Hayden smiles when she catches his eye, and Stiles quickly nods, dropping the backpack on the step beneath him before sitting down. He makes sure that he sits close enough their shoulders brush together whenever one of them moves even the slightest. Mason, he and at the very least partially Hayden. That should help him for now.

“Scott’s back,” Liam says quiet enough that Stiles would’ve easily missed it if he hadn’t waited for him to say something.

“Yeah.”

“Did he- did he-“

Stiles raises a brow, shifts his arms so his elbow is barely pressing against the younger boy’s thigh. “Say something?” Lips curled into a grim line, Stiles shakes his head. “He doesn’t speak with me either... or rather, I don’t talk to him.”

Hayden only briefly holds his gaze before turning away. Sometimes, she’s harder to read than the rest. Sometimes, she’s an open book to the world. Stiles never quite knows what to make of her.

“Why not?” Liam asks, unable to hide the relief in his voice. _It’s not just me_. That’s fine. That’s understandable. Especially for him. After all, Scott isn’t his friend. He’s his alpha, no matter how much he tries to _be_ just a friend. It’s different for Liam and Malia. He will always be their alpha first.

Stiles sighs and stares into the empty hallway, unsure what to reply. The truth? Something vague? A lie? _No._ Honesty is key. They need to be honest with each other. They need to _talk_ to each other, work with each other or this beast is going to tear them apart one by one. “Scott believes I’m capable of bludgeoning someone to death because Theo said so. I left him paralysed alone in the tunnels.” Stiles tries to shrug it off, but the thought sets his teeth on edge. Still. Again. It’s like walking forwards only to crash into the wall of flame he's been running from.

“ _You_?” Liam asks eyes growing wide and wider. “A murderer?”

The innocence with which these words are spoken is heart-breaking. Ever since the nogitsune incident, Stiles can hardly look at himself in the mirror. Donovan’s death did little to change that. Stiles knows what he is capable off, he’s aware of what he’s ready to do if the need arises. His hands are already bloody, there’s no need for somebody else to join him. “Do you really think I wouldn’t do it?” _It_. A child too afraid to say a big word. It’s pathetic.

“Not unless you'd die if you don’t.” Liam frowns.

Stiles can’t help but pat his shoulder, a gesture more patronising than he meant for it to be. “That’s so sweet.”

“What?” Liam sounds seriously annoyed. “You’re not like Theo.”

That’s not the point. Not at all. “Liam, do you really believe we can ask the Dread Doctors politely to fuck off?” What did they think is the solution to this problem? Sit down and hope for the best? Invite them for tea and cookies? There’s only one thing they can do, stall them long enough until they know how to kill them. Stiles doesn’t give a shit that they used to be human. People aren’t guinea pigs, but they are still dying because these fucking cyberpunk assholes don’t have anything better to do with their immortality. “If Scott doesn’t want to get his hands dirty, that’s fine by me but I’m done watching psychopaths get away. I’m done ignoring that some people won’t change. The Dread Doctors won’t change. They won’t stop unless they are _stopped_.”

Hayden intertwines their fingers. “Are you going to kill them?”

“Yes.” The word falls from his lips with far more ease than expected, and he doesn’t particularly feel bad about it either. No one’s going to miss them. No one’s going to care. If they’re dead, Beacon Hills’ teenagers are safe. That’s all that matters to him.

She shrugs, then nods. “Good.” 

Liam chews on his bottom lip, gaze locked on Hayden and his intertwined fingers. The silence is short but heavy, and when Liam looks at Stiles, his jaw is set in what Stiles can only believe is determination. “I’ll help you.”

“No, you won’t.”

“What? But I-“

Stiles raises a hand before lowering it and curls it into a fist. “It’s enough if one of us has blood on their hands.” Even if it was an accident what happened to Donovan. It still feels like his death stripped away Stiles’ innocence, like his last dying breath tainted Stiles’ soul forever. Accident or not, alive or dead, for a while Donovan’s heart stopped beating, for a while, Stiles killed him. His dad’s right, that’s something haunting him forever. He doesn’t want Liam to go through the same thing.

“I don’t want you to do it alone.”

“He’s not alone,” Hayden whispers barely audible, eyes darting from her boyfriend to the hallway.

Theo appears in their line of vision at the bottom of the stairs, a smile on his lips and his hair slightly dishevelled from styling it too quickly after practise and his eyes glinting with the kind of mischief that’s strangely alluring. This asshole knows what he’s doing, isn’t he? He has to know. There’s no way he doesn’t. A grin shows perfect straight, white teeth.

Stiles swallows around the lump in his throat and crosses his arms over his thighs. “Whose murder are you plotting?”

“I don’t understand why you always think the worst of me.” He crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the side of the wall.

For a second, his bicep is highly distracting, and Stiles hears Lydia’s voice in the back of his mind. _If it makes you feel better, I wouldn’t say no to him either_. He swallows around a lump in his throat pushing the thought out of his mind. This is not the time to think about Theo in that way. He doesn’t even know why these thoughts won’t stop creeping up on him. It’s not like him. While the concept of sex and pretty people never gets old, it’s not usually something that’s distracting him so much. Even around Lydia, he has been able to keep his wits about him during the time he was crushing hard on her. But Theo’s just standing there, and Stiles can’t stop thinking about the way their bodies fit together perfectly. 

He so needs to get laid. Preferably not by Theo.

Totally ignoring _everything_ that just went through his mind, Stiles tilts his head to the right raising a brow. “That’s a rhetorical question, isn’t it?”

Theo smirks at him.

“What do you want?” Liam’s hands are curled into fists, knuckles white under pressure. Even saving his girlfriend didn’t soften him. Which is understandable. Too much happened. Theo hasn’t just ruined Stiles’ life and friendships. There’s so much more to it. Having weaknesses exploited is worse than simply being outsmarted. If there hadn’t been fractures, Theo would have had a much harder time to tear them apart. Stiles is aware of that, Liam, however, might not be.

Hayden taps a nail against the stair she’s sitting on while Theo is pushing away from the wall. “I’ve received a text message you might be interested in, Stiles.”

That’s never a good sign. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“A little birdie told me that Donovan was seen near the hospital.”

Stiles jumps to his feet, struggling with his balance for a disconcertingly long moment.

If Donovan is at the hospital, he will go after his dad. That’s probably the only reason he even crawled out of his little hidey-hole. He has to go. He has to go _now_.

Before he can move, Liam jumps to his feet. “I’m coming with you.”

“No!” Stiles’ voice is louder than intended, and Liam flinches away, his expression torn between surprise and hurt and disappointment. _Fuck_. This is not the time for this. “I need you here,” he adds quickly, feverishly searching for a reason because Liam _will_ ask. Who wouldn’t? Donovan is dangerous, and they are, even if broken and scattered all over the place, a pack. Something is still holding them together, no matter how close it is from ripping.

As expected, Liam scowls. “For what? Algebra?”

Stiles knows for a fact that Algebra doesn’t belong to Liam’s strong suits. “No.” He places a hand on his shoulder. “I need you here to keep Lydia safe.” That’s the best he can come up with. That’s the only thing he can come up with but Liam’s expression softens and then hardens again with determination. Stiles has never been this relieved over a simple nod. Squeezing Liam’s shoulder, he glances at Hayden whose expression remains a mystery to him as she studies his face, then he turns and rushes down the stairs.

It doesn’t take long for Theo to fall into step next to him. They don’t speak. Stiles doesn’t see the need to tell Theo off – he doesn’t have a car and running really isn’t an option – and quite frankly, he doubts Theo would even listen to him. They stop next to his truck, however, and Theo looks at him with an almost serious expression. “You know I won’t hurt Lydia.” The threat rings in Stiles' ears, loud and impossible to ignore. _I won’t hurt her as long as you play by my rules_. He swallows and turns away as Theo takes a single step closer pushing right into his personal space with a smile that is far too soft on this face of evil. “Why’d you tell Liam to hang back?”

Stiles forces himself neither to look nor to step away. “Open the car.”

“Not before I have an answer.”

It’s not hard to tell what Theo wants to hear. It’s not hard to say out loud because it’s the truth, “I don’t want him to see what I might do to Donovan.”


	13. confrontations

After a short conversation with Tracy and Corey, who informed them that they saw Donovan roaming around the woods behind the hospital, they spend nearly an hour checking everywhere. The found tracks, seemingly fresh footprints as if someone walked up and down, but nothing else – no footprints leading anywhere, no scent, not a single indication about Donovan ever being here. 

Stiles suppresses the urge to kick a tree. Fucking _hell_. After not hearing from him at all, they seemed to be so close, and now they are left with absolutely nothing again. Grinding his teeth to keep a scream of frustration inside, Stiles kicks the branch lying at his feet partially covered underneath colourful leaves.

“We’ll find him,” Theo says crossing his arms over his chest. His words could’ve just as well been buried at the bottom of a cave – and Theo can stay there with them for all Stiles cares. They’re pointless and almost on par with Jordan’s stupid attempt of a pep talk.

Stiles pushes his foot under the branch and kicks it in the air. “I don’t want to find him sometime in the fucking future,” he says, fingers closing around the dirty wood. It feels strangely right in his hand, an oddly familiar extension to his arm that shouldn’t quite exist like this. But holding it in his right-hand makes his left seem exceptionally empty. He frowns, tosses the branch in his hand. That just switched the feeling completely around.

 _Huh_.

“What’s your big plan anyway?” Theo raises a brow. “Whack him with a stick?”

He wraps both hands around the middle of the branch, leaving a bit of space between them. That’s _better_. Odd and new but better. Strange. Very strange. Sure, he’s never had this feeling while holding a baseball bat or a gun. A weapon like feels right. Maybe that’s why he’s so terrible with hand-to-hand combat – other than having been so extremely distracted. Furrowing his brows, Stiles moves the branch, rotates it in his hands and holding it this way and that in fluid motions. It comes to him naturally, as if he hasn’t only watched people demonstrating bo staff techniques on the internet.

“Hey!” Theo grabs the branch, effectively stopping the movement and demanding his attention with his usual level of aggressiveness. “Would you please stop playing with your wood and-“

Stiles yanks the branch free, then goes in for a strike to get rid of his frustration _and_ give Theo what he’s had coming for a while. It seems to have been pretty predictable because Theo blocks the attack then shoves him away with a quiet growl. But Stiles is having none of it. He moves his hands further to the left for more range, then attacks him again.

Theo swats the branch away as if it’s nothing more than a pool noodle.

The almost condescending behaviour makes Stiles even angrier. “Asshole.” He strikes again and again and again. Nothing hits. Theo blocks every single attack, and every single time, Stiles only gets more pissed. This blatant portrayal of power imbalance, of ignorance – this fucking patronising behaviour. He’s always wherever Theo wants him. He lets himself be moved like a pawn – one day, he’ll be sacrificed as one. That’s what players do. Pawns are their weakest pieces; to get to the goal, they’d have to be put in terrible situations sometimes. Theo used him to get his pack. He uses him for his little petty acts of revenge on Scott. He will milk him for power. He’ll-

The branch connects with Theo’s cheek. A noise of triumph tears from Stiles’ lips when he hears a pained groan, when he sees how Theo’s head whips to the side, and he stumbles. The same all-consuming rage he’d felt the night he found his dad collides with his spitefulness. “This is your fault,” Stiles says in a low voice and strikes again. The branch connects with Theo’s jaw. His head snaps back almost comically as he stumbles further back and, eventually, loses his balance completely.

For a moment, his satisfaction burns bright and Stiles presses the tip of the branch against Theo’s cheek, watches a bit of blood drip onto the wood before locking eyes with him. The blue eyes flash yellow for a few seconds, lips twisted into a snarl until they stretch into a smirk. As ablaze as his satisfaction was, as quickly it suffocates by everything going on, by the irritation and frustration and fear of his father, by the guilt of feeling _good_ about hurting someone. The branch falls to the ground, leaves crinkles quietly underneath it, and Stiles drops to his knees. “You sent him after me. You made me a killer. _You_ made my dad a target of a whackjob.” He sits back on his heel, then the forest floor and wraps his arms around his legs.

Theo sits up, and the wet blood on his cheek and jaw and skin makes Stiles _sick_. This is what he does with too much power, with the ability to fight – this is what his anger can cause if he doesn’t have a handle on it. Now, it may be just Theo but- _no_ , it should never be _just_ anybody. He’s not supposed to attack someone. He’s not supposed to do _that_.

“That wasn’t the goal.”

Stiles scoffs. “You think this is funny, don’t you?” He swallows the anger and curls his fingers into the leaves. “Watching me do whatever it takes to save my dad? Even betray my best friend?”

Theo wipes the blood away with his sleeve, narrowing his eyes. His lips parts but he clenches his teeth and swallows whatever he intends to say. “I’m talking about Donovan,” he says propping his crossed arms on his knees. It seems like an unintentional gesture more than another way to manipulate. But with Theo, it’s always hard to tell. Either way, sitting here with Theo like that throws Stiles back to their Little League times, throws him back to those moments after practise of sitting on the bleachers waiting to be picked up by their respective parents. “I wanted to swoop in and save the day, so you _finally_ started trusting me.” Theo pulls his shoulders up for a slow shrug.

A wave of anger forces Stiles to grind his teeth. “So, when that didn’t work, you tried again with Josh?”

“No, Josh just happened.”

 _Just happened_. Scoffing again, Stiles gets to his feet. “And all that because you wanna milk me for power. Slow clap. Such brilliance.” Momentarily, he curls his hands into tight fists, nails digging into the palms of his hands. He swallows, takes a breath, then forces a smile on his lips while Theo remains unmoving. “Lydia wanted me to play a game but you’re not worth it. You don’t have any moves left. I have the hellhound-“ Stiles closes the distance between them, and Theo gets to his feet, teeth gnashed “-I have the nemeton’s power. _You_ need _me_ to stop that monster from turning you and your pack into chimera chow. So, here’s the thing, the second you touch anyone I care about, you’re done for. You have two choices.” Holding up two fingers, Stiles takes a single step closer, now standing chest to chest with Theo who’s jaw tightens with every single word; anger is his tell-tale sign, anger confirms that Stiles is right. “You either move along the pattern I allow you to move in or it’s checkmate. Your choice.”

A low growl cuts through the following silence. Theo couldn’t make it more obvious if he outright agreed with him.

Stiles leans closer, tries to ignore their proximity, the breath on his jaw, tries to ignore how easy it would be to- he leans back and folds his arms over his chest. “Stay the fuck away from me and my friends.”

Stiles couldn’t find his father in his room, the benches outside or the cafeteria. Despite his best attempts to stay calm, panic creeps its way back in – what if they couldn’t find Donovan because he’s gone already and took his dad with him? Tracy and Corey lost track of him after all. But somebody would’ve stopped them from leaving, right? And if Donovan had tried to brute-force his way out, he would’ve alerted the police. His dad has to be inside this fucking hospital somewhere.

Taking a breath, Stiles comes to a halt in his father’s hospital room. _Okay, think_. If he were Donovan, where’s the smartest place to severely injure someone in a crowded hospital? There’s no way he could’ve gotten into one of the operation rooms without staff noticing. The same goes for basically any other room holding medicine or medical instruments. But it would have to be a secluded area. Someplace people don’t go to often. Someplace like- like-

The basement or the roof.

Up or down.

Stiles presses his eyes shut.

Up or down.

_Where are you, bastard?_

There’s no way to figure it out, and now he regretted pissing Theo off by sending him away. His help would be more than valuable right now. He could call him. _No_. Who knows where Theo is? It’s a waste of everybody’s time – a waste of what might be left of his dad’s time. Stiles’ chest constricts. Standing here isn’t helping either. He’s got to make a decision. He has to do it now.

 _Up_.

Donovan could push his dad off the roof or shove him into the restricted area and hook him up to the generator. Yeah. The roof. There’s not exactly much to do in the basement. So, Stiles doesn’t wait for the elevator. Aching muscles or not, he’ll make it faster to the roof taking the stairs. His legs hate him with a fiery passion rather quickly, but he doesn’t stop. He sprints up, rushing past storey after storey. Too afraid to take a single break. Instead, he uses the railing to swing himself around, desperately hoping for that bit of extra speed.

Despite his urgency, he’s completely out of breath when he bursts through the door to the roof – they really need to lock that thing – and his heart sinks when he finds nobody. Stiles takes a shaky breath, feeling his strength rushing out of him in a single swoop. Maybe they’re up here still. Donovan wouldn’t exactly do something to the sheriff in a place where anybody could run into them.

Swallowing heavily, Stiles pushes himself off the door. His legs are trembling. The muscles in his thighs hardly feel as if they’re going to hold him up much longer. Well, if he lets them. Stiles is more than used to pushing his body way past the point of exhaustion, he’s not going to change it now; not with his dad in a potentially life-threatening situation. He has to find his dad. He has to-

Blinding pain explodes in his left temple. Someone screams. Maybe it’s him. It’s most definitively him. His whole world tilts, turns and whips him around. There’s concrete in front of him, then the sky and eventually Donovan’s face. Close. Blurry. There’s a ringing in his ears. Louder than Donovan’s words. Much louder. He can’t hear a single word. Not one. He can’t-

Stiles parts his lips. Breathe. That’s what he needs. Take a breath. Maybe that makes his headless wonky. But his throat is closing up. The air doesn’t want to go past his mouth. It gets stuck there. He can’t- he can’t breathe. He cannot. His heart hammers against his ribcage. Panic cuts through the fog clouding his mind.

Donovan.

He’s strangling him.

He’s _killing_ him.

Stiles grabs his wrists, starts thrashing underneath. To no avail. Donovan is and will remain to be so much stronger than Stiles could ever become.

Unless-

While trying to pry Donovan’s hands from his throat, he searches for the heat he felt when he trained with Theo. It’s nowhere. He’s cold. His muscles feel heavy, leaden almost. He’s trying to focus on the task, on what his magic should do. _Get away_. The fog’s becoming heavier again. _Push him off. Push. Him. Off_. Stiles repeats it like a mantra. Repeats it despite the burning in his chest, despite his eyes watering, the darkness creeping in from all sides.

Stiles cannot-

He can’t-

Without warning, Donovan is flung off him. On instinct, Stiles sucks in as much air as he can, presses his left hand to his throat. He scrambles away, looking for Donovan on his retreat. Through the ringing in his ears, Stiles hears a loud thud a muffled cry of pain. Stiles hits a wall with his back, and pulls his legs to his chest, blinking to get rid of the darkness at the edge of his vision.

Stiles swallows and grimaces. It’s uncomfortable, sore. With one hand Stiles places on his throat, he fumbles for the edge of the wall to pull himself to his feet. He’s nothing without his friends, a weapon or sheer luck. He needs this magic. Without it he is completely defenceless; without it, he’s fucking useless.

Stiles forces himself to his feet but without the wall at his back, he doesn’t have a chance to stand. Not even for a second. He can’t run. Fighting, however, isn’t going to be possible either. Not with his head hurting, his world spinning – oh _god_. If he stays here, that’s going to be the end of his story. _Theo_. He needs to call him. Maybe he’s still around. Maybe someone from his pack is close.

 _Help_.

He needs fucking help. _Right now_.

Gnashing his teeth, Stiles moves away from the wall struggling to get his phone out of his pocket. If he makes it to the door, he can bolt it, if he makes it to-

His foot catches on air. Or maybe his legs give out. One moment he’s standing, the next he’s falling. His phone hits the ground first, clattering over the concrete. Stiles prepares himself for the same fate. But he never connects. Not with the floor, at least. Arms wrap around him. His cheek is squashed against a hard chest. _Theo_. He came back. It has to be him. He’s the only one who knows- 

“Bloody hell.”

Stiles blinks.

“That twat bit me _with his hand_.”

That’s not Theo. That’s _Isaac_. And Isaac’s voice is not coming from the person who holds him. Stiles shifts and the arms loosen their grip, but the hands never leave his body which is pretty helpful as a wave of nausea and pain almost knocks him clean to the ground again.

“Okay.” _Oh_ , Brett. Of course. Makes sense. Kind of. Where there’s Isaac- but where the fuck did they come from? “We gotta take this fool to a doc before we talk about your delusions, Posh Spice.”

Despite himself, Stiles laughs, or he thinks he does. He can’t hear anything other than a rasp feeling like pins and needles in his throat. It vibrates in his head, ricochets of his skull. Darkness crawls back into his vision. He’s safe tho. He doesn’t have to fight it any longer. It’s okay. It’s gonna be-

He woke up to his father ready to finish what Donovan started, Lydia and Jordan burning a hole in the side of his head, Kira and Isaac nervously fidgeting and Brett looking like he’s watching the world’s most boring TV show; at least, he doesn’t stare at his phone, so Stiles should probably be honoured by that.

After the mandatory speeches about how irresponsible he acted and drinking half a litre of cool water, Stiles glances around the room drawing his eyebrows together before he focuses on Brett. “How-“ oh _shit_ , his voice is so fucked. Clearing his throat – which _ow_ – and starts again, “how did you find me?”

Brett stretches his long legs, arms folded over his chest. “I got a text from an unknown number telling me you’re going after a supernatural creature by yourself,” he explains rapping his fingers against his upper arm. “Isaac got it too.” He juts his chin in the direction of Isaac who only nods.

“I got one as well,” Kira says looking from Brett to Isaac.

Lydia runs her fingers through Stiles’ hair, mindful of the bandage around his head. “I received the same message.”

“Someone wanted to make sure you survived,” his dad says quietly shaking his head. He opens his mouth. Stiles will throw his cup of water at him if he tells him _again_ that he should’ve just asked someone to figure out that he’s had a follow-up examination instead of being eaten alive by a science experiment with a taste for revenge. His dad closes his mouth with another shake of his head.

Jordan collapse onto an empty chair and Kira places a hand on his shoulder. “Do you have any idea who that might’ve been?” she asks drawing her eyebrows together.

Stiles glances at Lydia. “There are only three people who know where I went; Liam, Hayden, and Theo.” Lydia and Kira have Liam’s phone number, and Stiles doubts he would bother getting a different phone to send anonymous text messages around. Neither would Hayden. Stiles is actually pretty sure she wouldn’t bother at all with warning people that he’s about to do something stupid. But Theo? He might not want people to know it was him or that he gives a shit. Maybe he even thought people wouldn’t have believed him.

Isaac seems to have come to the same conclusion. “So, that punk basically saved your ass.” He scratches his chin with a frown.

“I’m more interested in what you did to that guy to piss him off,” Brett says although he manages to sound as unenthusiastic as humanly possible. This guy is a phenomenon. “Aren’t supernatural creatures usually schmoozing with you?”

Stiles scowls, then pulls his shoulders up and fiddles with the blanket. “I killed him.”

Shaped by many negative reactions to even jokingly consider murdering someone – let’s be real, his humour is dark, Scott’s known that before – as a solution to their problem, Brett barking out a laugh comes as a complete surprise; not only for him if he reads Lydia’s perplexed reaction correctly. “No offense, man,” he says still highly amused, “but you didn’t do a very good job.”

Isaac smacks the back of his head, “the sheriff-“

“Oh, don’t _fuss_.” Brett gets to his feet stretching; a line of slightly tanned and toned skin shows for a split second – enough to distract Stiles for just as long. Fucking hell, he really needs a moment to get his thoughts and feelings and _himself_ in order, but this isn’t it. Luckily, Brett doesn’t seem to have noticed. Lydia, however, chuckles quietly and gently pokes his cheek.

Crossing his arms, Brett continues, “it’s not like Stiles went after him to bash his head in.”

Hearing that from someone he’s basically seen on four different occasions – once he’s been poisoned and passed out – is strangely comforting. Maybe it’s really just Theo. Maybe he’s only losing his control around him because that fucker knows which buttons to push.

Clearing his throat, his dad raises to his feet. “I need to lie down. The stress-“

“Sorry, Dad.”

With the help of his cane, he limps towards him. “Just don’t do it ever again,” he warns ruffling his hair with a tired smile. “I want you to stay overnight, you hear me? No sneaking out of the hospital. Even if the world’s coming to an end. You are going to take the rest of today off. Are we clear?” Barely noticeable, his dad tugs on the strands of his hair before massaging the back of his head for a small second. It’s one of those moments in which Stiles really wouldn’t mind sleeping in the same room as his dad. Being alone tonight scares him.

“I promise.”

“Good.” His dad takes a step back and turns around, slowly walking back towards the door. Jordan has risen to his feet, his fingers trembling when he curls them into fists at his sides. Out of everyone here, he hasn’t said a single word since Stiles woke up. His silence weighs a ton – and it only gets heavier when he remembers the conversation they’ve had about his brother.

The silence hangs in the air until the door falls shut after the two. Stiles pokes the side of his cup with his thumb, then clears his throat awkwardly. “Thanks, by the way,” he mumbles prying his gaze away from the door. “For saving my life.”

Brett shrugs. “Satomi said you might be useful to keep around.”

“Bloody hell,” Isaac mutters, this time kicking his friend in the hollow of his knee hard enough, Brett makes an awkward and most definitively involuntary curtsey. “Stow it or people start thinking you care.” As Lydia cackles utterly amused, Brett and Isaac go through an intense non-verbal conversation that involves a lot of glaring and a snarl. By he looks of it, the latter is winning because Brett flops back onto the chair with a massive scowl.

Stiles grins.

Kira chuckles quietly.

“Anyway,” Isaac adds with a sharp undertone and crosses his arms over his chest, “I reckon you should learn how to fight.” He’s definitively not wrong but knowing how to fight won’t be helpful when it comes to Donovan. It’s like bashing his knuckles against a stone wall. Hitting him with a wrench barely did anything to him. He shouldn’t even have gone after him like that. Theo was right, he didn’t even have a plan. But _with_ Theo, he would’ve had a shot at succeeding. Alone? Not so much.

Kira clears her throat. “I think Mom and I will be more helpful with that.”

“What?” Lydia leans forward to look at her. “Why?”

But Stiles instinctively remembers the ease with which he used the branch as a weapon, the feeling of it, the natural sensation. It all clicked into place. It made sense – and now he understands why he didn’t swing it like a baseball bat but a bo staff, why using it was as easy for him as breathing even though he’s never had his hands on one before. And remembering that brings back memories of Kira’s excitement about being able to use a sword without a problem, about her saying how naturally fighting with a katana is to her. An affinity for weaponry is part of the kitsune nature. It’s part of her.

It’s part of _him_.

Stiles stares at nothing, tries to ignore the dread pooling in his stomach. His chest constricts. Donovan’s tight grip returns around his throat. Stiles brings his hands to his throat. The cup with water clatters to the floor as he digs his nails into the tender skin in a desperate attempt to breathe again.

“What the-“

“It’s still inside me, isn’t it?” The horror hasn’t ended. From the get-go, his body has felt wrong, not like it used to be, tainted and manipulated, not like his own. He wants it out. Every little scrap of this nightmare has to _go_.

Lydia sucks in a breath. “Stiles-“

“No.” Kira’s voice is barely louder than a whisper, and she crosses the room on silent feet. Her smile is small, an unspoken apology. Gently, she puts his hands over his and pries them away from his throat. Stiles can see that she doesn’t want to say what comes next; _he_ doesn’t want her to say what comes next because he doubts hearing it will make this situation any better. Eventually, Kira lowers her gaze and squeezes his hands. “It turned you.”


	14. of foxes and wolves

“No.” Stiles pulls his hands away and shakes his head. “No,” he repeats as if that would hammer his point home. That’s not right. That’s absolutely impossible. "I’m not- that doesn’t make any sense.” Nothing indicated that he’s anything but human. He still can cross mountain ash barriers; he can use it too. There were no incidents that make him doubt being human. Zero. Zilch. Nada. Unless- _no_. He’s not going to think about that right now. He’s not going to think about it ever again from this day forward.

Kira presses her lips into a thin line then smiles again. “After I passed my tests, the skinwalkers spoke about a ‘fox that should not be’.”

“How do you know that’s Stiles?” Brett asks sitting up straighter, eyes burning yellow as his gaze drags from Kira to Stiles, where it lingers for what feels an eternity. It’s heavy and assessing and causes his stress to shoot through the roof. That’s really not helping his headache.

Kira fidgets with the blanket. “Well, my mom said-“

“That’s cute.” Brett chuckles ignoring the redness creeping into her cheeks as well as Isaac glaring at him. “Listen, I’m just saying Stiles doesn’t have an aura. _You_ do.” His yellow eyes flit back to her, and Stiles notices her fingers twitching in the direction of her belt.

“Are you trying to piss people off?” Isaac asks.

Brett turns to him. “You heard Satomi. You really want a trickster to maintain the balance?”

While everyone else stares at Brett as if he’s losing his mind, Stiles cannot help but agree with him. “He’s got a point.” If Kira’s mom is right, and he’s some weird kitsune abomination, then nobody should give him any kind of power over anything – especially not something as dangerous and valuable as the nemeton. Stiles hasn’t even thought about having to maintain the fucking balance. Nobody in their right mind would let him balance _anything_. What the fuck? And, let’s be honest, kitsunes, in general, should not be allowed to hold any power after what happened with the nogitsune and Kira as well as the way Noshiko handled the whole situation. They cause chaos all around. Balance is the last thing on any kitsune’s mind.

Isaac waves his hand around. “Don’t encourage him.”

“I’m just saying-“

“Don’t.” Isaac shakes his head. “He’s just being a tosser. Some kitsune probably rejected him once and now he’s having a vendetta.”

Brett opens his mouth, and Stiles has not a single doubt about the response being furious – at least as furious as he can imagine Brett to be which really isn’t all that much – but Lydia cuts through the discussion. “Maybe we should go back to Stiles’ predicament?” she asks in a sickly-sweet tone that has a thousand alarms go off in the back of Stiles’ pounding head. Brett’s close to being on the wrong end of her fury.

Kira clears her throat, and Brett makes a dismissive gesture – ‘go for it, I don’t give a fuck’ – slumping back into the chair. “Okay, uh… Mom tried to explain to me what happened.” She glances over her shoulder then turns her back fully on Brett and Isaac to focus on Stiles. Folding her hands on her left thigh, Kira continues,” nothing can be created out of thin air. When the nogitsune possessed your body, you weren’t just a vessel, by the laws of the supernatural, you _were_ a kitsune. So, when it fled in its new body, it ripped a kitsune in half and filled the blanks with magic.” Kira bites the inside of her cheek and squeezes her fingers. Again, she glances over her shoulder.

Stiles uses the pause to take a breath and loosen his grip on Lydia’s hand. With a small smile, she shakes her fingers then reaches for his hand again. Taking a steadying breath, he intertwines their fingers. Holding onto her is the only thing that’s keeping him afloat, that keeps him grounded in this mess of everything. He really cannot wait to get out of this town and start over new – but _how_ is he supposed to start over when there’s no way to rid himself of the supernatural because he’s something himself?

Kira clears her throat. “Here’s the thing where it gets weird.” Kira twiddles her thumbs then presses her hands flat against her thigh. “Remember how I was only aware of my kitsune after the nogitsune tricked me into causing that blackout?” He was there. That’s hard to forget. “The same is essentially happening to you now… just… slower.”

Stiles blinks. _What_? He doesn’t- what? That doesn’t make any sense. Or does it? This isn’t the right time for important conversations. Not even in the slightest. With his head pounding as if someone works on it with a sledgehammer, it would be a miracle if he could add two and two without breaking his brain. “Fucking hell,” he utters closing his eyes and sinks deeper into the pillow. “I can’t think.” He massages his temple with the ball of his free hand.

There’s a hiss coming from the other side of the room, followed by a very quiet ‘oh, _fuck_ you’, and he blinks his eyes open to find Brett standing up, tossing his jacket over his chair and crossing the room with an impressive scowl. “Scoot over, Einstein,” Brett orders gesturing for Lydia to go or make room, “I’m gonna take his pain. I don’t have time for this bullshit.”

More baffled than irritated, Lydia raises to her feet and occupies the now empty chair.

Isaac smirks. “He’s bad with apologies.” There’s probably a reason for Isaac’s behaviour. As of right now, it looks like he’s either executing an act of petty revenge or tests how hard he has to push Brett’s buttons for the other boy to explode. Although it’s a highly intriguing endeavour, Stiles cannot get rid of the feeling that it’s similar to fiddling with the cables of a ticking time bomb.

But, right now, he doesn’t give a fuck. The moment Brett’s hand closes around his wrist, and he got over the highly uncomfortable initial pull – like someone hooking a finger around the edge of his pain and giving it a hard tug – all he can do is trying his hardest not to moan. Having pain drained feels strangely relaxing and very intimate.

“So,” Lydia says crossing her legs in thought, “Stiles is causing a power outage?” Well, so much for relaxation.

“Essentially, yeah,” Kira agrees with a nod.

Stiles sits up a bit straighter again. “That still doesn’t make any sense. What blackout am I causing?”

“Oh, whatever could _that_ be?”

Whipping his head around – terrible idea, _terrible_ idea – Stiles stares at the now open door to his hospital room finding Theo lean against the frame, arms and ankles crossed leisurely, disgustingly smug smirk firmly in place. Chuckling, he pushes away from the door and steps into the room uninvited. “You’re not intervening with any kind of power? No? Nothing that comes to mind?”

Isaac moves to the middle of the room, blocking the direct path between Theo and Stiles. “What are you on about?”

But Stiles finally gets it. “The nemeton.”

“Bingo.” Theo chuckles and ignores Isaac’s presence altogether. Instead, he looks at Stiles as if he’s the only person in a room full of people – and if not for Brett’s hand firmly clasped around his arm, it might’ve drawn Stiles in.

Swallowing around a lump in his throat, Stiles frees his arm carefully. Most of the pain is gone, and somehow this feels too much all of the sudden. Too intimate. Too much proximity. Too much _everything_. He crosses his arms firmly over his chest. “What kind of kitsune does that make me?”

“One without a fox spirit attached to it,” Kira says now sounding uncertain herself. It’s hard to blame her. Everything she said seems far too surreal to be true.

Isaac looks from Theo to Kira. “How can you be a kitsune without a fox?”

Stiles sucks in a breath as realisation hits him in the face. “ _Oh my god_.” His gaze snaps back to Theo. That’s not- he can’t be. _It_ can’t be. No. Never. “I’m not like _him_.” He only realises he’s said it out loud when Theo’s eyes narrow and the smirk darkens a fraction. He shakes his head, looks away from him. “I’m not a chimera,” he corrects quietly.

“Satomi did wonder if the imprisoned nogitsune poisoned the nemeton,” Brett says running a hand through his hair with a frown. With a shrug, Brett props one foot on the mattress and puts his arm around his knee. If Satomi is right, then the nemeton didn’t choose him because he’s special, it didn’t choose him because he’s the right one for this type of power. It chose him out of sheer convenience – because he was there and happened to have been poisoned by the same godawful bullshit. Stiles just so managed to survive it.

 _Great_.

Out of all the things he could’ve become, he was turned into a chimera that is part human and part nogitsune – he’s a fucking abomination of the worst kind, a dump for death and poisoned power. Couldn’t he just stay human? Fate doesn’t even have the decency to turn him into something good if it had to turn him? Whoever set this fucking nogitsune free should hope Stiles is never going to find them or he’ll tear them limp from fucking limp without a second thought.

Theo scoffs and yanks Stiles out of his ill-tasting thoughts. “Being a chimera has more advantages than disadvantages.” That’s easy for him to say after being one for half of his life. Even if he immediately enjoyed everything about it, other people need a bit more time to adjust to this type of life-altering change.

Brett snorts out a laugh. Loud enough for Isaac to shoot him yet another aggravated look. Something is going on between those two. “Don’t do it.”

But Brett doesn’t listen. “And what makes you so special, squirt?” His switching between not giving a shit and antagonising everyone around him will be the cause of some serious whiplash one day.

Isaac groans.

Kira moves from the bed to the table next to where an impatient Lydia watches the scene unfold. Her pursed lips and glare show exactly what she thinks about everything.

“I can shift into a wolf and am not bothered by either mountain or wolfsbane,” Theo says not missing the chance to gloat because _clearly_ now is the time to piss people off. “What do you have to bring to the table?” His smirk is decidedly too smug and kind of pretty – fucking hell, that hit did not help his head at all. Donovan might not have succeeded in killing him, but the rational part of Stiles’ brain definitively took a beating.

Massaging his temple, Stiles glances from Theo to Brett. Oh, this isn’t actually happening, is it? He had to have fallen asleep and this is all just a weird dream. It’s the only explanation that makes any kind of sense.

“I can fuck you up. _Again_ ,” Brett sneers crossing his arms over his knee. “Let’s see how far your advantages get you then.”

“Oh my god.”

“Bloody hell.”

His clenched jaw gives his anger away despite Theo’s best attempts at feigning nonchalance at the reminder about their last fight. Theo, undoubtedly, has many talents but holding a grudge is what he excels in. “Try me,” he says in a terrible mockery of calmness that sounds more as if he’s preparing to rip Brett to pieces first chance he gets.

Brett doesn’t even blink. “With pleasure.”

“ _Fucking_ hell.” Stiles flings his blanket off. “Put your dicks away.” They don’t have the time for their childish bickering, not with Donovan on the lose and the Dread Doctors still out there trying to create a giant and very lethal beast. He doesn’t even have the time to spend a night in this stupid hospital. But he’s dead-tired and still so fucking confused. It’s not like he has a choice.

“He’s right,” Lydia says raising a brow, “your pissing contest has to wait.”

Theo scoffs.

Stiles punches his pillow in a more comfortable position. “I need to sleep. We can continue this conversation tomorrow.” When his head is less dazed. He knows it’s the concussion making it harder than usual to keep a train of thought; the feeling creeps him out anyway. Usually, a full night of good sleep will get rid of that.

“Okay,” Isaac agrees crossing his arms. “Brett and I have a lacrosse game tonight. We’ll stay until six.”

“We’re doing _what_ now?”

Stiles squints at him.

Lydia nods. “Kira and I can come after.”

“I can take the nightshift,” Theo says in a tone straying a bit too far from annoyed – as people should be when they have to stay the night babysitting someone else. “Corey can get me in and out without drawing attention.”

This is where Stiles has to draw the line. “No.” _Hell, no_. In what world is it a good idea to have Theo stay the night with him? Lydia knows. She has to realise that this is a horrible, _horrible_ idea. Horrendous even.

But she fails him and jabs her finger in Theo’s direction instead. “If you leave him again-“

“I didn’t leave him.” He raises his hands in mock-defence. “He hit me with a branch and told me to go because he doesn’t need me any longer.” That sounds so much worse hearing it out loud.

Brett barks out a laugh patting Stiles’ shoulder in a way that’s either secretly patronising or weirdly proud. It’s honestly hard to tell with the guy – Stiles can’t even tell if he likes him or if he’s joined the mess for Isaac _or_ to continue picking on Theo. “Classic case of hubris,” he says squeezing his neck, “happens to the best of us.”

“You’re especially familiar with that, aren’t you?” Isaac drawls folding his arms over his chest with a tired smile.

Stiles pulls his shoulders up.

Lydia jabs her finger from Theo to Stiles, her free hand placed on her hip. “You will not send him away, you understand that, do you?” Better than she probably believes, even though he cannot fathom why she thinks that’s a good idea. Just thinking about having Theo in his room at night while he’s asleep – or not asleep; he’s really not sure if he even could go to sleep with others in the room – sends his mind into a frantic panic.

Stiles clears his throat and shifts away from Brett’s hand on his neck. “I really don’t need a babysitter.”

“Donovan tried to kill you,” Kira reminds him drawing her eyebrows together. “Someone should stick around and make sure you are safe.” Of course, she has a point. That’s obvious. But that doesn’t make the upcoming night any easier. Trying to talk to them out of it is probably not going to work either; not with Lydia around. She’ll scare everybody into following her orders.

Stiles slumps into his pillow. “This is a waste of your time.”

“I will gladly waste my time if it keeps you alive.” Lydia’s heels click as she crosses the room. “I won’t survive this town without you.” Smiling softly, she leans down to kiss his forehead, but the lines of worry return as she wipes her lipstick away with her thumb. It’s a sweet gesture that makes dread pool in his stomach. Sure, she’s just anxious about what happened yet it still feels like they’re not going to see each other again.

Theo opens the door, his gaze heavy on his cheek. “I’ll try to find him,” he tells him in a low voice, and Stiles can’t help but look at him, can’t help but feel a strange sensation flush through his body – a giddy feeling, a safety he’d compare to being wrapped up in strong arms. The words _be carefully_ almost roll of his tongue, but Stiles would rather bite it off than allow that to happen. They may be fighting the same battle, that still doesn’t mean they’re on the same side. There’s no way to predict what comes after Donovan, after the Dread Doctors, after Beacon Hills is saved. Theo might go back to pursuing what he’s come here for in the first place.

Stiles shuffles into a lying position and turns his back on Theo without saying a word. Although he’s tired, Stiles doubts he’ll manage to fall asleep; especially not with Brett occupying the edge of his mattress, phone in hand and with seemingly no intention of leaving anytime soon. Not that he blames him. Hospital chairs are fucking uncomfortable.

 _Still_.

Theo’s gaze leaving him feels like a finger tracing his spine. He shudders despite himself, takes a breath and squeezes his eyes shut. Only after the door closes, he allows himself to breathe and relax again. There’s no way he’s gonna make it through the night in one piece.

The shrieking of breaks and a car horn rips him out of his sleep. Stiles blinks, confused. His feet are cold. Wind tugs at his clothes. The moon hangs full in the sky.

He’s outside.

He’s-

“Stiles!”

Surprised, he turns towards the scream the night air carries towards him. What’s going on? Theo runs out of the hospital. Why is he-?

Something hard collides with him. Every last ounce of air is screwed out of him. He gasps, loses his footing. Stiles briefly wonders if he was hit by a wrecking ball or a car. _Oh_. A car. Arms wrap around him. No. One arm. The other is outstretched. Not a car. A person. What the hell-?

Pain ricochets up his arms and knees as he connects with the concrete yet again. His palms burn with the memories of a thousand skateboarding accidents and scraped skin. _Fuck_.

Now he’s awake, all right.

Footsteps come in his direction. A car door slams shut.

“Hey! What the fuck-“

Stiles doesn’t know that voice, not at all. He doesn’t know shit right now. What the _fuck_ happened? How is he- how could he-? He sucks in a breath and clenches his teeth. It doesn’t make any sense. The last thing he remembers is falling asleep to Brett and Isaac’s boring as hell lacrosse conversation. Now he’s _here_? In the middle of the fucking street about to be hit by a car? This night gets worse by the second.

“Fuck me,” Brett mutters leaning his forehead against Stiles’ shoulder.

 _What_?

“Stiles-“ Theo comes to a stop in front of him, Chucks almost a bit too white for someone living in the tunnels underneath Beacon Hills. Shouldn’t they be dirtier? And why is he thinking about that in the first place?

Brett’s arm tightens around his chest, and he heaves him into a seating position. Staring at his hands, Stiles slumps against him. A little hiss escapes his lips. There are dirt and blood on the balls of his hands. It stings. _Fuck_ , does it sting.

“Weren’t you supposed to keep an eye on him?” Brett snaps as Isaac joins them muttering something under his breath.

Stiles frowns at Theo who’s just standing there staring down at them. “I was gone for maybe ten minutes,” his voice sounds strangely quiet, subdued almost. Confusion is evident in every shift of his expression, “to check on his dad.”

“The point was to stay _with_ him, you knobhead,” Isaac snaps folding his arms over his chest. Genuine anger isn’t exactly something he’d witnessed often so it takes Stiles by surprise. _Everything_ takes him by surprise – the fact that he’s outside the hospital, that he’s almost been run over by a car, that Brett saved him, that he and Isaac are even here, that Theo wasn’t looking out of him; that, for some reason, confused him the most. Would Theo leave him to look after his dad? Something about those words doesn’t feel right. But it’s not like he’s currently in any position to make this type of judgement.

Stiles scrubs at a bit of dirt with his nail. It easily comes off showing otherwise clean skin. He’ll just- _"hold on."_

“What?” Isaac asks. “You wanna defend him?”

Stiles squints at his hands, turns them a bit. “They’re gone.”

“Who’s gone?”

Stiles raises his hands, palms directed towards Theo so he can see. “The scratches.”

Theo blinks and crouches down as if he actually needs to take a closer look with his supernatural eyesight. Drawing his eyebrows together, he wraps his fingers around Stiles’ left hand. The touch is enough for him to want to recoil – too soft, too caring, too close. But Theo goes further, brushes the dirt off his palm before scrutinising it. Part of Stiles wants to think Theo knows exactly what he’s doing. A much smaller but very persistent voice tries to argue that maybe he does care after all. Stiles is very much inclined to believe the former. Theo plays his game, never stopped, won’t _ever_ stop, and maybe Lydia is right; maybe the only way this can end well is with Stiles starting to play along.

Isaac crouches down, crosses his arms over his thighs. “You sure there were scratches?”

“There’s blood,” Theo says before Stiles has the chance to reply.

Brett claps his chest and pulls his arm back. “Turn around.”

Stiles frees his hand from Theo then scrambles around awkwardly to find a place to sit that’s not Brett’s leg. This is- heat creeps into his cheeks. First, he sleepwalks, then he has to be saved and now he sits on the guy’s leg after Theo held his hand all too sweetly. If he truly is a nogitsune, he really has to put in a bit more work in having a cruel humour and generally be better at the whole trickster stuff. He shouldn’t be flustered by this. Why is that always happening around attractive people? This is the _worst_. He needs to take a deep breath, calm down and focus on the important shit.

There’s not much space between Brett, Theo, and Isaac surrounding him, he can only decide who he wants to sit closest to. He shifts towards Isaac, the only one he trusts enough to turn his back to and faces Brett. Keeping Theo in his sights is definitively an added bonus. Something’s not right with the guy; something happened, something that drew him away but that he wants to keep secret.

“Okay,” Brett says curling his fingers around Stiles’ chin and raises it. The gesture does nothing against the heat in his cheek he can’t decide if it’s because of the almost patronising behaviour or something entirely different. “The bruises look paler,” Brett notes after a moment. “Let’s check your cut.” Leaning forward, Brett carefully loosens the bandage enough to be able to peek at his forehead. Only a moment later, he pulls the bandage off wordlessly.

Stiles doesn’t need any further explanation.

“Bloody hell.”

Brett tosses the bandage at Theo. “Shouldn’t take long now.”

Theo curls his fist around the bandage, knuckles white yet his voice betrays nothing of what’s clearly going on inside of him, “could explain the sleepwalking.” That’s not exactly reassuring. High stress would be a much more calming explanation in his current position, but, of fucking course, it would be something supernatural because _why not_? A human explanation is far too mundane and boring in Beacon Hills.

Quirking a brow, Brett glances from Stiles to Theo. “The nemeton is known to hide from those who seek to use or destroy it.” The words couldn’t be any more accusatory if he tried.

And Theo understood every single of the cold syllables thrown at him even though he asks, “what’s that supposed to mean?”

Isaac stands up before Brett does. The latter uses his impressive height to look as imposing as possible. “I think you know.”

Theo sneers straightening as well. “And I think you have to go into a bit more detail.”

Rolling his eyes, Stiles folds his arms over his legs. “Put your _dicks_ away.” Their childish behaviour grates on his nerves. They have enough on their hands, their fights are the least productive shit they could do right now or _ever_. "For fuck’s sake, use your pent-up energy for something goal-oriented. Like, I don’t fucking know, sniff out chimeras?”

“You can’t-“

“I don’t know,” Brett shoots back smirking. “Always thought there’s an odd smell around you.”

Isaac steps forward. “Come on. Not now-“

“Or _what_? You wanna-“

Whatever Brett intends to accuse Isaac of gets lost in a ground-shaking roar cutting through the cool night air. Stiles knows that sound. He’s heard it before. Not too long ago. That's the thing, that _beast_ , the Dread Doctors are trying to create. They did it again. Maybe this time, it’s a success. _Oh no_. Oh, no. No. Jordan. Jordan is going to go towards it. Like he did last time.

No.

“Stiles!” Isaac snaps when he gets to his feet. “Don’t even _think_ about it.”

There’s a gap between them; large enough that all three of them would have to move in order to grab him. Kitsunes are faster than werewolves. If he _really_ is part kitsune, if he has that particular speed-

Another roar, louder and angrier than before.

He can’t let Jordan fight this alone. He _won’t_ let him fight this alone.

“Stiles, do not-“ Theo begins, but before he can finish, Stiles has turned on his heels and sprints towards the source of the sound. The wind picks up immediately, tugs at his clothes. His bare feet sting on the cold concrete. This is probably a wasted attempt. He might fail spectacularly, looking like a goddamn idiot for even trying. Brett is probably rolling his eyes right now because he doesn’t even have to run fast to catch up to him. But Stiles doesn’t give a shit. He has to get to Jordan, or, at the very least, he has to try.


	15. tethered

Stiles doesn’t run, he flies. His head and body operate on different frequencies. His mind is focused on Jordan and nothing but Jordan. Theo’s yell and Isaac screaming his name are nothing more than whispers in the background. Not a single part stops thinking about Jordan. It’s like his thoughts have drowned in nothing but Jordan. He knows it’s Cerberus’ connection to the nemeton. Part of him is aware that the nemeton took over his body, that it’s the nemeton guiding his feet towards their shared goal – towards where he needs to go.

He’s close; close enough to feel Cerberus’ presence vibrate around and inside of him. For the first time, he can sense their connection, can sense the ties that keep the nemeton and Cerberus together no matter how far apart they are. Their connection is unfolding, curling around him until seeking it out comes as natural as breathing.

The click of claws against concrete cuts through his concentration. Only a second later, a large black wolf catches up to him, but he doesn’t overtake him – either because he can’t or because he doesn’t want to. Theo snarls, teeth bared and white and very sharp. It doesn’t take long for him to snap at his ankles.

 _Piece of shit_.

Stiles barely dodges the attack, or perhaps Theo misses him, by mere inches. Either way, he’s got to get away. Preferably before this stupid prick sinks his teeth into his ankle or pants. Neither would be particularly helpful. The second he’s got a hold of him, he’s going to be stuck; they will stop him and there’s not going to be a single chance to break free from them again. Balance, Stiles has to acknowledge, starts with little things. The advantage in strength werewolves possess over kitsunes is evened out by a fox’s speed. He wonders-

Without warning, within a split second every single part of his body gives up, stops working. Every cell and nerve and muscle constricts, shrivels. His legs give way, his sight cuts out. He opens his mouth for a scream that doesn’t come – or maybe he just can’t hear it. He doesn’t even feel pain. One second he stands, the next he falls and then he hits the ground with a dull thud. The impact echoes in his bones, distant, almost as if it doesn’t really happen to him but somebody else.

Panic sets in. His heart hammers against his chest. It’s the only thing he still feels – until he moves or rather, until someone moves _him_. Fingers curl around his shoulder, dig into the fabric of his shirt, his skin, shake him. He’s aware, alive, and ever so empty. There’s nothing there, nothing but that dark hollow of emptiness in which his panic echoes, ricochets around without anything to grab onto.

Someone hits him. He can feel a palm connecting with his cheek, can feel the jolt in his neck when his head snaps to the side. It doesn’t sting. He’d barely consider it pressure, just the feeling of something not belonging to him touching his cheek. Nothing more, nothing less. It happens again, and a third time. All in short succession.

Everything remains dark, empty, quiet aside from a sound like fire crackling in the not too far distance.

Wait.

 _Fire_.

Jordan.

Stiles can feel a tug on his- his nerves? Maybe. It’s not his body. It’s somewhere inside of him. Everywhere inside of him, around him. Another tug. Then something crashes down on him, digs into his skin, buries itself into his body and muscles, bones and veins until there’s nothing left of him that’s not touched by whatever _this_ is. He can feel it coursing through him like a buzzing, a spark, a fire, a lightning storm. It tingles, it burns, it’s sheer agony.

This time when he cries out, Stiles can hear it. He screams like a dying person. Helpless. In pain. Something ripped out of a nightmare.

The pain travels through his body, settles in his chest, his heart and head. He can feel the ground tremble underneath him; no, not tremble, _quake_. Concrete digs into his back, heat presses down on him. Comforting. Familiar. He moves towards it, can feel arms wrap around him, feel the heat wrap around him. Safe. Soft. Warm. He doesn’t want it to go, doesn’t want it to leave him ever. It eases his pain, eases the agony, protects him from that earthquake.

From everything.

Stiles cannot tell how much time has passed until he dares to open his eyes, blinking slowly, and finds himself almost face to face with Jordan looking down at him. Next to his head, Isaac appears with the same expression; lips slightly parted, brows drawn together, worry carving deep lines between their eyes.

 _Huh_.

He blinks, groans, “what happened?”

“Fuck if I know,” Isaac mutters sitting back on his heels, “you all suddenly went mental.” _You all_? Isaac runs a hand over his face, glances briefly at Jordan helping Stiles to sit up – his muscles feel as if he’s just barely survived one of Finstock’s last-minute practises. Damn, he’s so gonna feel that for a while; unless – unless it heals like the rest of his injuries. But aching muscles are the least of his problems. Why did he collapse? It’s as if his system simply _shut down_. It doesn’t make any fucking sense.

Although… Brett told him that he’d very likely notice when the nemeton’s time comes to an end. Maybe that’s what that was. Maybe the nemeton – _oh god._

“Lori?” Brett’s frantic voice yanks him out of his thoughts. Kneeling on the ground, an arm curled around his stomach as if he’s suffering from either nausea or cramps, Brett presses his phone to his ear. “Lori? How’s-“ Someone else must’ve answered the phone because Brett pales, shoulders tense – but only for a moment. His whole body relaxing, he slumps forward, leaning his cheek against his upper arm, and breathes, “thank god.”

Stiles furrows his brows. If Isaac wasn’t affected, why were Brett and Lori? And what about- “the beast?” He whips his head around to look at Jordan. The Dread Doctors need the nemeton’s power to create their chimeras. The last monster has barely managed to survive as it is. But with such a drop in the power source?

Jordan confirms what he suspected. “He didn’t make it.” _He_. A boy this time.

Stiles turns his head to look in the direction Jordan points in but his gaze catches on something else first. A body, naked and unmoving. Shock runs through him. “Theo!” Oh no. No, no, _no_. Not like this. Stiles hastily gets up. Unsteady on his legs, he trips over his own feet and crashes to the ground for what feels like the thousandth time today. He scrambles the last of the short distance. “Theo, he-“ his words catch in his throat when he sees the small puddle of silver liquid next to his open mouth. _Mercury._ Oh, god- he knows what that means. Bleeding mercury means failure, means dying – death. Theo’s death.

The thought makes him sick in ways he cannot explain. He shouldn’t feel this, shouldn’t think like this – but it’s the simple concept of Theo being gone, being dead, that makes him feel as if someone belted him in the chest with a baseball bat. Strong, invincible, too stubborn Theo; the guy who stands up after being hit by a hellhound, the guy who swoops in to save the day, who survived the Dread Doctors for years, who built himself a pack of undead chimeras rather than admitting defeat. He can’t _die_ because of a simple hiccup in the nemeton’s power. He can’t _die_ because suddenly his body is failing.

“He has to heal,” Brett says still sounding out of breath and an arm curled around his stomach. “Isaac-“ he doesn’t continue, instead sucks in a deep breath when he sits back on his heels; expression contorted into the kind of pain Stiles has seen on his lacrosse buddies’ faces after a particularly rough practise.

 _Why did it affect you_?

Isaac crouches down next to Stiles and grabs Theo’s arm with both hands. “This is gonna hurt,” he says in a strangely satisfied tone – like part of him is thoroughly enjoying what’s going to happen next.

Stiles doesn’t like the thought of that. “What are you-“

“I’ll trigger his healing.” Without further warning, Isaac breaks Theo’s arm.

Stiles whips his head around and squeezes his eyes shut. Even after everything he’s seen, fractures and mangled, all-wrong body parts make his stomach turn and lurch and- he clasps a hand over his mouth, wishes he could somehow tune out Theo’s cry of pain as he comes to, the sharp intake of breath a moment later and the eventual, nauseating sound of bones snapping back into place. He tries to ignore the sour taste in his mouth, tries to think about something else and lets out a shuddering breath. Fucking hell. _Fuck_ everything – he won’t ever be able to do that himself. The thought alone turns his stomach upside down all over again.

But he needs to be able to do that. Otherwise, he’s going to be completely useless all over again. He’s supernatural now, partially at least. He’s a chimera, and he-

Chimera.

Stiles snaps his eyes open. “Your pack!”

Locking eyes with him, Theo quirks a brow. His gaze dances over Stiles’ face, searching for something – an answer, explanation – and then, a moment later, his lips part, round into a silent _oh_ -shape. “Corey and Josh are at the hospital.”

 _Fuck_. Do they die without immediate help? Or are they fine now that the nemeton’s power is flowing again? Stiles bites the inside of his cheek. They can’t waste any more time. One chimera died tonight, a boy not older than fifteen by the looks of it, possibly even younger. He’s nothing more than a crumpled mess on the concrete a few feet away. “We have to go,” Stiles says forcing himself back onto unsteady legs. “Liam-“ he scans his pockets for his phone, chest constricting when he realises he doesn’t have it on him. How could he? He sleepwalked out of the fucking hospital. “We have to call Liam. He’ll know where Hayden is.”

“I can find them,” Jordan says.

Isaac clears his throat. “What about the kid?”

“Don’t worry about it.” Jordan nods briefly in his direction. “Just get to the hospital.”

Stiles swallows heavily. “Okay,” he mutters watching as Jordan walks to the body and carefully lifts him up and into his arms.

“Yo, squirt,” Brett calls, and Stiles turns just in time to see him throw a sweater in Theo’s general direction, “put away your dick.”

Isaac sinks into his chair with a sigh, wiping his greasy hand on a paper towel. Corey and Josh smuggled pizza into the hospital before Stiles sent them back to wherever Hayden and Tracy are hanging out. When Isaac and Stiles found them, they’ve both come to already, struggling and trembling, staring at the pool of mercury in sheer terror. It took them a while until they calmed them down enough that Stiles wasn’t worried about sending them away. Theo hasn’t been happy about that decision – he’s the alpha, he reminded Stiles in a low growl – and that’s probably the reason he ordered them to buy them something to eat.

Stiles is pretty sure the guy isn’t happy about anything right now. The green Devenford Prep jersey sits relatively passable. It’s large and a bit too long, not overly so, seeing that Theo’s shoulders are wider, his bicep more distinct. Where Brett is fit and lanky, Theo is much more buff. The hilarious part is the sweatpants that make him look as if a little boy raided his big brother’s wardrobe.

Well, it’s his own fault he tossed his designer clothes somewhere into an alleyway in the middle of the night. They may not live in Los Angeles, but they have enough people here as well who won’t say no to free clothing and a mobile phone.

Stiles pushes his pizza box away and rubs his eyes with the back of his hands. His muscles are still sore, but his nausea has gone down. No thanks to the greasy pizza he’s only eaten a few slices of. He is surprisingly hungry, still, he really doesn’t want to risk throwing it all back up.

“You done with that?” Brett doesn’t wait for a reply and instead leans forward to trade paper towels for the pizza box.

Isaac studies his friend for a moment. “Why were you affected?”

“Hn?” Brett grunts around a slice of pizza.

Theo tugs at the sweatpants scowling. “He’s right,” he says padding barefooted across the room to sit down on the edge of Stiles’ mattress. “You’re a werewolf.” Despite himself, Theo didn’t beat around the bush but told them that the nemeton’s power isn’t only needed to create chimeras. Their life is bound to the telluric currents which will wither and die without an active nemeton feeding them power. The moment the nemeton's reign ends, the chimeras created with its power will die as well. Stiles’ survival is crucial to Theo’s. Which, in hindsight, explains why he has been so interested in Stiles from the very beginning.

Brett swallows. “I’m a born werewolf,” he corrects causing Isaac and Stiles to roll their eyes heavenward. As if _that’s_ the point right now. “What I meant,” Brett adds, indignant by their initial reaction, “is that I was born on the nemeton’s territory. I don’t need it to survive but it gives me a significant advantage over other wolves.” _Huh_. The more you know. It definitively explains how Brett could beat Theo up without batting an eye while Isaac struggled.

Crumpling the paper towel into a ball, Stiles contemplates his words. “Just you?”

Theo shifts next to him; his presence like a thunderstorm creeping closer – fascinating to watch from afar, nothing he’d want to get too close to.

“No.” Brett tears the crust apart but has enough tact to finish speaking first, “Lori too. And the Hales.”

“Is that why Scott could become a true alpha?” Stiles wonders shifting into a cross-legged position. “Because he was bitten by Peter?”

Scoffing quietly, Brett exchanges a brief look with Isaac. It’s not the first time they’ve done that, and Stiles can’t tell if it’s because of his lack of knowledge, the question in general or something entirely else. “Peter has been cut off from the nemeton since before I was born.” Brett avoids Stiles’ eye or perhaps he’s much more interested in the pizza. Not being able to figure him out is infuriating.

Theo shifts around until Stiles’ knee presses against his thigh.

Isaac clears his throat, gaze darting over their legs. For a moment, he draws his eyebrows together but turns to the room at large when he says, “reckon I can consider myself lucky Derek bit me the.”

Chewing and without looking up, Brett shrugs.

“How can you cut someone off from the nemeton?” Stiles fidgets with the blanket. Knowing that seems like highly important information – not that he’s accidentally killing someone. Also, he probably could use it as a threat. Stiles can feel Theo looking at him, eyes palpable dragging over his jaw and cheek. The hairs on his arms stand up. Stiles pulls his legs to his chest and wraps his arms around them. 

Brett tosses the pizza into the box and grabs another paper towel. “You should work on defending yourself before you worry about others.” He drops the towel into the box as well and gets to his feet. “Five people depend on your survival now.” Nothing awakens the spirit like a bit of pressure, eh? And, technically, it’s six people. But Donovan probably doesn’t know that yet – and who knew if the guy even believes them in the first place. If he did, Stiles would have one less problem. He could take control over Donovan, could bend him to his will – could end his life the moment he became too big of a threat for his dad. He’d do it. If he had to, if it saved his father’s life, he would kill Donovan again.

“Wait, I have more questions-“

“Well,” Brett interrupts him crossing his arms over his chest, “I’m not a fucking Magic 8-Ball.”

Isaac rolls his eyes. “Mate-“

“I came back here because _you_ didn’t trust that fun-sized chimera-“ Brett waves his hand in Theo’s general direction ignoring both Theo’s low growl and Isaac’s exasperated sigh “- and yet I’m the one doing all the work.” He runs a hand over his face, eyes screwed shut, worry carving lines between his eyes. It lasts for as long as his hand covers his face. Stiles only sees it because he’s using this very tactic himself. It’s easier to hide the concern, the exhaustion, the pain than to let someone see. But while Stiles maintains his façade to protect his dad during his healing process, Brett has to do the same because of his rank within the pack. Potentially. Stiles can’t be a hundred percent sure. But it would explain a lot. Pressure can twist a person any way it wants.

“I’m tired anyway,” Stiles says catching Brett’s eye. _Go to your sister. Go to sleep. Rest._ “Theo’s got a reason to keep me alive now.” It’s most definitively the only reason Theo is interested in him in the first place. It finally makes sense – Theo _knew_. What other reason would there be? Power and survival. That’s all Theo cares about. That’s all Theo will ever care about. The mere fact that Stiles considered himself something other than a means to an end for Theo makes him feel so stupid. So _childish_. How? How the fuck had the thought even had the chance to creep in? It needs to go. He needs to get it _out_ – out of his system, out of his head. He doesn’t care how, just that he needs to rid himself if it.

Immediately.

“Man,” Isaac mumbles scrubbing his hands over his face, “I don’t wanna leave your fate in his hands.”

“Or that of those foxes,” Brett adds quietly, crossing his arms over his chest with a sigh. With Satomi being close to Noshiko, his hostility doesn’t make any sense. Unless Isaac was right, and it is born from wounded pride – or something entirely different. Especially since Brett knows Kira. Why _is_ he like that?

“His fate,” Theo drawls rolling his eyes as he leans back on his elbows like he owns the goddamn bed, “is very safe in my hands. I don’t plan on dying anytime soon.” _Yes_ , hammer it home a bit harder. It’s as if he knows exactly Stiles’ whole body recoils and cringes at the thought – a reaction like nails scratching over the blackboard.

Stiles shuffles towards the edge of the bed gathering every inch of distance he can get. “There’s no such thing as fate,” he mutters absentmindedly running his fingers over his throat. If something like fate or destiny existed, it would be kinder to him after putting him through hell. But there’s nothing, no set path, no greater plan – just he, himself and the shitshow called life he needs to survive, _must_ survive or he’ll tear down six people with him. Stiles can’t believe he has to actually think before he acts now.

Theo scoffs. “People get what they deserve.”

“You should behave then,” Isaac tells him tapping the red logo on the pizza box.

Brett glances at Isaac then at Theo before turning away to stare out the window, his eyes as far away as the lights of the city. His silence makes dread pool in Stiles’ stomach. Something about the guy not grasping his chance to mock Theo seems unusual, wrong almost. That’s so unlike him, at least if he considers his previous behaviour. Of course, his mouth thinks this strange occurrence is an opportunity to talk again. “What’s up?” he asks, his voice not quite as light as he would’ve preferred it to be. “Is the big bad Brett Talbot afraid of fate?” Mocking him probably shouldn’t be his first instinct, however, it feels a thousand times better than the dread pooling in his stomach.

Brett’s cool blue eyes lock with his. There’s no smirk, no arrogance. His mask was stripped away until the guy looking back at him is just a teenage boy – not a werewolf, not a beta in charge of a pack whenever Satomi isn’t around.

A boy.

Just a boy.

“No.” Brett shakes his head. “I’m afraid of you.”


	16. Plan B

The room plunges into silence. Ice cold. Suffocating. A silence that’s wrapping a tight fist around his throat. “Me?” Stiles croaks eventually feeling smothered under the heat in Brett's blue eyes, in a face that’s been carefully controlled in the last few days. Seeing the real Brett peeking through the curtains is almost as terrifying as the confession – because everything Stiles can see is white-hot anger. For as long as he can think he’s learned that anger makes a wonderful breeding ground for horrific decisions.

Like leaving someone behind in a tunnel while he was paralysed – and with a giant beast as well as the Dread Doctors roaming through Beacon Hills.

Stiles can’t tell how anger could influence Brett’s decisions.

“Not _you_ ,” Brett snarls curling his fists around the bar on the lower end of the bed, “I can take you out if I want to.”

Isaac raises to his feet. “ _Zip it_.”

Theo stiffens next to him, sits up straight. The air of nonchalance surrounding him vanishes completely.

Brett pays neither any mind. “You worry about what could potentially happen to you and completely ignore the consequences this change has on the balance. It’s _shot_. You-“ Brett takes a breath, his voice quieting down a bit when he steps back and shakes his head. _You ruined everything_ _._ “You change the game, man.” No, ruin is the right word because he did. He _did_. If he had been stronger, if he hadn’t let the nogitsune in, so many things would’ve been different – would be different now. Instead, his weakness did not only kill Allison and so many others, it still causes trouble, ruins lives, creates chaos. _It’s my fault. It always is._

Stiles stares at the white sheets. “I’m sorry.” The words feel too familiar on his tongue, too old. Stale. It’s not enough, not even close. How could he even apologise for something like that? Is that even possible? All the lives he’s saved during the Deadpool, the chimeras he’s helped resurrect – nothing feels like it can compare to what the nogitsune used his body for; to what he allowed it to do wearing his skin. If he had been stronger, if he had been selfish enough to value his life over Malia’s – no. _No_. That’s not who he is. That’s not something he’d ever do.

He remembers calling Derek a self-sacrificing idiot, remembers Isaac laughing about it, remembers how he wondered why he thought it funny. Now, Stiles understands. He’s a self-sacrificing idiot too. But now, he has to actually value his life, or he kills six other people and who knows what else is going to happen.

“I’m sorry?” Brett blurts out, his voice somewhere between irritated and surprised, “ _what_?” The mask has not returned, Stiles realises when he looks up to find this young, this strange Brett still standing at the foot of the hospital bed. There’s something almost helpless about him, like a kid who’s lost his parents in the big city, phone pressed to his ear waiting for instructions to find his way to his family again.

Theo leans back, clearly having noticed the shift in the atmosphere as well. His presence remains a thunderstorm, but no matter how wild that storm might become, Stiles knows what he’ll get and that, in itself, is surprisingly comforting. He can’t say the same about Brett, can’t figure out anything, not what he thinks, what he feels, what he wants. He likes Isaac enough that he’s ready to do him favours. He’d do whatever it takes to protect his sister. Other than that, the guy is a total mystery.

And that’s so much more terrifying than the villain hiding in plain sight.

Stiles pulls his shoulders up. “I know, it’s not enough-“

“Woah, hold the fucking phone,” Brett interrupts him, stepping around the bed to sit on the edge of the mattress. “The fuck are you apologising for?” The smirk slips back onto his lips but the rest of his mask refuses to follow suit. “Isaac said you take no shit from anybody, and yet you apologise for something that’s not even your fault?”

Studying his face, Stiles remains quiet. He doesn’t know what to make of this sudden change in mood.

“I told you,” Isaac says dropping his head as he slouches, arms crossed over the footboard. When Brett shoots him a look, he doesn’t meet his eyes, instead turns his head away to face the closed door. “He...well...” Isaac clasps his hands together, knuckles white under pressure. “He has that effect on people.” His voice becomes quieter with every word, almost like he doesn’t really want to say anything.

Stiles stares at him, unsure what to make of those words and the way he acts. He? Who is Isaac talking about? _Him_? And what effect? What’s going on?

Theo chuckles. “Blaming himself is what he’s good at.”

“Oh, _screw_ you.”

Brett barks out a laugh. “There you are,” he says leaning against the footboard. “Thought I’d lost you just when you became interesting.”

Stiles opens his mouth but between that and the statement sinking in, he completely forgot what he was intending to say. He doesn’t even _know_ what to say to that. Again, Brett only proves that his behaviour is as volatile as the sea – and perhaps exactly as dangerous. It’ll take Stiles some time to lower his guard around the guy. Maybe it’s a trait he’s picked up due to his father’s work, or he’s just naturally that wary of people – probably a bit of both – but he’s not capable of relaxing around people he cannot figure out. And while Scott always frowns upon his mistrust of strangers, Stiles allows himself to be proud of his instincts. If anything, _those_ are what he will trust above all else because as of yet, they haven’t failed him.

“Really,” Theo drawls drawing his eyebrows together, “ _that’s_ what you're going with?”

Isaac pulls his shirt as if he’s trying to make them bigger somehow. “Like I said,” he says in a strangely too light tone, “he's terrible with apologies.”

When Brett looks at him, he’s narrowing his eyes in a way that’s less angry than assessing. He draws his brows together, pulls the corners of his mouth into a small frown. They're such minuscule movements, they’re impossible to detect if you weren’t looking for them. But Stiles _is_ looking. He always is, especially now. Stiles stares at him for a moment longer, hoping he can get a hint of what’s going on between the two but Brett turns his attention to him again, and so does Isaac. Stiles decides to drop the topic. “His mood changes are gonna give me whiplash.”

“ _Please_ , try living with him.” Isaac meets his eyes for a fleeting second, the ghost of a smile on his lips.

Silence returns, not quite as heavy as the one before but not particularly light either. Something’s still hanging in the air like a cloud that threatens with rain all day but never ends up delivering.

Eventually, it’s Brett who ends it. “I meant what I said, you gotta learn how to survive. Not just because of those science experiments.” He nods in Theo’s general direction, obviously back to his old self and not going to pass up a chance to annoy the guy. “Other werewolves will notice. Druids too. First, those connected to the nemeton’s power, then those living on the territory, then the werewolf passing you in the streets. We supernatural recognise each other. Werecreatures have a certain scent. Wendigos too. Kitsunes have their aura and you-“ Brett breaks off and taps a finger against his leg assessing him.

“It’s like a pull,” Theo says eyes dragging over Stiles’ cheek again. His gaze feels as sharp as a nail gracing over his skin.

Stiles _hates_ it.

“It’s like having an open box of your favourite biscuits in front of you while on a diet, innit?” Isaac wondered tipping his head to the side with a sly grin. “You know you shouldn’t but you want to.”

What the _fuck_? Stiles stares at him. Did the guy just compare him to cookies? It’s the sleep deprivation, has to be. Even werewolves have to become delirious when they don’t sleep enough. They have enough advantages already.

“Okay, Posh Spice,” Brett says quirking a brow as he studies Isaac’s face, “calm the fuck down.” 

“He isn’t entirely wrong,” Theo agrees and those are not the words Stiles wanted to hear coming out of his mouth. In fact, those are words he doesn’t want to come out of anybody’s mouth ever again. The last thing he’s striving for is to be compared to cookies or any other type of snack. No, thank you. There’s only so much weird shit he can handle at a time.

Brett shakes his head and pulls a leg up on the mattress. “You’re a power source, a battery if you wanna use a fucking metaphor. Werewolves want that because werewolves are assholes. They all wanna have the biggest territory, the largest pack, the most power. It’s how we’re wired, and there are few exceptions.” Brett raises a brow again, glances at Isaac who maintains an indifferent expression then turns back to Stiles. “Having you as an emissary would give any pack an automatic powerup. No pleading with the nemeton, no sacrifices, no attempt to coax just a tiny bit of power out of it. Straight to the source. Werewolves are gonna want that. They’re gonna want _you.”_ Brett hooks a finger into the cuff of Stiles' shirt and tugs at it, once, then twice before grabbing his wrist to push his sleeve up to his elbow. Stiles is too stunned to react, just stares at his arm and Brett's finger tracing the familiar invisible line on his skin. Despite himself, Stiles shudders at the touch. Brett chuckles. “You should consider wearing long sleeves.”

The second he lets go of his arm, Stiles tugs at his sleeves until they cover half of his hands and curls his fingers around the fabric. Other werewolves are a problem for future Stiles, present Stiles has to handle scientists with a soft spot for steampunk armour who seem to be not just immortal but also invincible. Because Theo is right, when they figure out that the nemeton's power has shifted to another owner, they are going to want his ass chained to one of their examination chairs.

“What if I leave town?”

Brett’s smile is almost pitiful. “Telluric currents are all over the world.”

 _Shit_. “What if I-"

“Give the power to another tree?” Brett asks, and now that pitiful tone has snuck into his voice as well. “Not gonna happen. It has to be prepared by druids, be on the crossroads of every telluric current running through Beacon County _and_ you’d have to filter the nogitsune's poison out first or the next will die just like the other one.” _Fuck_ , he’s right. That nogitsune is the reason the nemeton died in the first place. But it was just a fly in a jar. How much damage could it have done? “That stupid fox poisoned the nemeton ever since it’s been buried there by Noshiko.” _Oh_ , they are getting to the bottom of his aversion against kitsunes. It seems like letting Brett talk is answering more of Stiles' questions than actually asking him ever would. “That’s the problem with immortals. They don’t waste time to think about what could happen within the next hundred years. They think about themselves because they survive anybody else they know anyway.”

Stiles frowns. “Kira is different.”

“Exceptions prove the rule,” Brett shoots back immediately, and the familiar anger snaps back into place. “Kira might be nice but her mother doesn’t care about you or your friends. She would’ve killed you for something _she_ caused.”

_Then you remember I won’t be deterred by your choice of host._

Isaac chews on the inside of his cheek.

“Fine, come with me,” Stiles decides raising a brow, “when I train with them, join us.”

“What?”

“ _What_?”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Theo says straightening again. He doesn’t say anything else, just stares at Stiles as if that’s going to change what he’s just heard. It isn’t. It won’t. Theo doesn’t have any say in what he does or doesn’t do. Not anymore. He made his position clear. To him, Stiles matters only as long as his survival is beneficial. That might mean forever – that might mean until the day Theo decides that becoming a real werewolf is less detrimental for him.

Crossing his arms, Brett assesses him. “Why would I waste my time watching you practice wielding a sword?”

Stiles isn’t going to wait that long. He'll work with Theo as long as he needs to but he will get himself a second option, a Plan B, maybe even something better – a pack of werewolves with an alpha who knows what they’re doing. He smirks at Brett. “You don’t trust them, so, I’m pretty sure you don’t want the nemeton’s power to fall into their hands.”

When Stiles arrives with Jordan at the Yukimura's residence the next afternoon, he finds Brett being his usual disinterested self plastered to his phone. In place of Isaac, Satomi sits at the kitchen table conversing with Noshiko like old friends.

Kira offers him a sympathetic smile. “This must be terrifying for you.”

“A little bit.” Stiles musters a grin but he’s pretty sure that’s not even half as convincing as he would like it to be. Truth is, this is one of the scariest situations he has ever found himself in that doesn’t involve a direct threat to anybody’s health. He hasn’t met Satomi before. Her reputation, however, proceeds her. An alpha of her status and age scares him into never disagreeing with her ever before she’s even opened her mouth. And the last time he’s, well, _met_ Noshiko, she threatened to kill him. So, his company is of questionable quality for his poor nerves.

Ken emerges from the kitchen with a tray of mugs and tea. “Please, sit.”

Kira smiles at Stiles again before walking towards the empty chair opposite Satomi. Both her and Noshiko sitting at the head of the table finally look at him. He’s not enjoying their combined attention at all. To be honest, he wants to turn on his heels and run out of the house as fast as he can. Instead, he sits down next to Kira and opposite Brett, who, after Jordan has taken his seat next to Stiles, puts his phone in the pocket of his hoodie.

After Ken distributed the tea and sits down on Brett’s other side, Noshiko starts the conversation. “Satomi and I would have preferred to have had this conversation with you before last night’s events.” Her gaze briefly darts to Brett, who stares at the steaming mug in front of him. His slightly pulled up shoulders are the only thing giving away how he really feels. “However, I suppose now is better than never.”

Stiles wraps his fingers around his mug and clears his throat. “I asked him to keep it to himself.”

Brett stares at him, shakes his head once.

Satomi folds her hands on the table. “While I do appreciate that you want to take the blame, Brett made this decision on his own and he will carry the consequences by himself.” That’s not what Stiles wanted. Brett said he spoke to Satomi about it. Why didn’t he just say who he is asking for? He should’ve known that it will cause trouble in the future.

“Be that as it may,” Noshiko continues setting her mug down, “we will have that conversation now. But before we begin, a single rule must be established; nothing we talk about today is going to leave this room. It's for your own safety.”

Nodding Stiles raises the mug to his lips but doesn't drink anything. He doesn't usually mind attention; he doesn't crave or seek it out, oftentimes he rather pushes someone else in the spotlight, but he's never felt this exposed by people looking at him. At first, Stiles thought it's a Brett thing. He was wrong. The guy learned that from Satomi, and Noshiko, as well as her husband, are in no way inferior to either of them. He's never felt this stripped down in the middle of people who are basically strangers. If the ground ever wants to swallow him whole, now would be a great time. Of course, nothing happens because that just not how his life goes. So, Stiles clears his throat and pretends he's not on the verge of sliding under the table to hide from them. “Brett told me about potential dangers,” he says after a pause, his voice steadier than his hands.

Satomi nods, assessing her second in command with a slightly softer expression. “We advise you that this information should never reach-"

The doorbell rings. Kira jumps next to him looking around in surprise. Nobody seems like they're expecting anyone else right now. Nobody moves either, almost as if they contemplate to ignore the doorbell altogether and wait until whoever it is leaves.

It rings again, longer and almost more aggressive than before. Satomi leans towards Noshiko telling her something in a voice so quiet, Stiles can't make it out. She probably knows who's at the front door. And so does- Brett kicks Stiles’ shin mouthing 'Theo’ after he got his attention.

Stiles rubs his leg absentmindedly. The initial sharp pain has vanished almost immediately, and while that's certainly something he needs to get used to, now is not the time to dwell on that. Because Theo has somehow stalked him to the Yukimuras. Stiles has the strong feeling that he should carry flour around and toss it in every direction occasionally just to make sure Corey isn't hiding somewhere. But again, that's something he can think about later. Now, he has to deal with that stupid chimera. Theo’s never going to go away, especially since he knows exactly they’re inside. Stiles tugs at Kira's sleeve and jerks his head in the general direction of the front door. When she stands up, she follows suit; and she isn’t the only one. Brett is on his heels before they even reached the glass front door behind which, as he expected, they find Theo, and, much to Stiles’ dismay, Tracy.

Kira opens the door. “What are you doing here?” If she tried to sound hostile, she failed spectacularly.

“This conversation concerns me and my pack more than any of you,” Theo says sounding less demanding than expected. It almost sounds as if he is urging for reason. The worst part? He has a point.

Stiles crosses his arms. “You stay. She goes.”

“Dude-" Brett grabs his shoulder but doesn’t turn him. It’s just a squeeze like he decided mid-movement that he doesn't want to complain after all. Or shouldn't. At least not with Satomi within earshot. How mad she truly is about Brett keeping Stiles' name out of his research is a question he will have to ask another time. But if the way he keeps his head down is any indication, she was livid when she first found out about it. That he even kept it a secret in the first place still boggles his mind. It doesn't make any _sense._

Stiles briefly glances over his shoulder at Brett, who wrinkles his nose like he's smelling something rotten. When he looks back at Theo, the chimera's gaze jumps back up to his eyes - but Stiles could've sworn a shadow crossed over Theo’s face, that his eyes wandered from his face to the hand on his shoulder before snapping back again. Did he imagine that? No. Right? It doesn't even matter. _Focus, Stilinski._

“Why?” Theo asks after a brief pause and crosses his arms. “You have your backup, I have mine.”

Tracy smirks, and it takes every bit of strength not to ask Kira to cut off something other than her tail. Something about her doesn't sit right with him. Not even in the slightest. Her willingness to serve Theo, the way she craves his praise - it's driving him mad. Stiles grinds his teeth for a moment. She may be his beta, but Stiles knows exactly how to make Theo dance to his tune. “I don’t trust her.”

The grin spreading on Theo’s lips is infuriating. “But you trust me?”

Kira shifts a little and bumps into him. Stiles resists the urge to reach past her and slam the door in this fucker’s face; even though this is exactly what he wants. He might have misjudged Theo in the beginning but for the most part, he's read the guy correctly. “I _trust_ ,” he says sharper than intended – the mere fact that Theo’s getting a rise out of him this easily makes his blood boil – and pushes his hands into the pockets of his pants, “you know what’s good for you.”

Theo narrows his eyes slightly, clearly contemplating the disadvantages of leaving Tracy behind. Eventually, he does exactly what Stiles wants him to do. He agrees, _“fine.”_

The world has barely left his lips when Stiles' spirits lift and Tracy's face falls. “ _Theo_ ,” she breathes reaching for him but thought better of it almost immediately.

“Wait in the car,” Theo says without looking at her and steps over the threshold.

The entryway feels very cramped all of a sudden. Stiles takes a step back, pressing his lips into a thin line, and bumps into Brett whose grip on his shoulder tightens momentarily. “I don’t like it,” the werewolf informs Stiles in a whisper, and judging by the look Kira shoots him, she most definitively agrees.

Stiles licks his lips. “He’s on our side as long as it suits him,” he mutters, so desperate to get a bit of distance between Theo and him, he doesn’t care about pressing against Brett. “We should use that to our advantage.” There's using Theo and getting rid of Tracy, and then there is having him intruding his personal bubble. The latter is something he would love to avoid forever. Especially right now. 

Kira draws her eyebrows together, glances at Tracy still standing in the open door, and back at Stiles. “We should go back.”

“Lead the way,” Theo says gesturing in the direction of the dining room. His fingertips brush over Stiles' collarbone. The touch, however brief, causes him to step further back, further away from this complicated attraction that's been bubbling up ever since he's spending more time with the guy. He needs this distance. He _has to_ maintain it or this whole game is going to go downhill much quicker than anybody could anticipate - especially when Theo notices what's up. Knowing him, he's going to use that to his advantage. 

Brett scoffs. “I’ll keep my eye on you.”

“Same,” Theo returns just as threatening and kicks the door shut behind him with a smile but without looking away from Stiles for a second. It’s terrible, obnoxious. It makes him want to hide behind Brett, to seek protection from a gaze that tries to break him apart.

Stiles nudges Brett with his elbow, and the werewolf budges even if reluctantly. “Shoes off,” he says quietly waving his other hand in the direction of Theo’s feet. Although he knows that’s not quite the case, he somehow feels responsible for the guy – or maybe it’s more that he vouches for him after deciding to invite the guy in. It would be helpful for his nerves if he doesn’t do anything disrespectful today. But having Theo behave is like convincing a toddler to eat their vegetables. God forbid, they do something healthy and the easy way.

The short walk back to the dining room happens in complete silence. Stiles can feel Theo moving directly behind him, always too close even as he speeds up and almost runs face-first into Brett's back. He’s already regretting his decision. Then again, they wouldn’t have gotten rid of him without violence and the last thing he wants to risk is a fight with Theo when Satomi and Noshiko are sitting in the next room.

They’re terrifying.

Jordan stiffens slightly when he sees Theo entering the room. “What’s he doing here?”

“My life depends on his survival,” Theo replies dragging the chair opposite Noshiko over the expensive flooring. “I have more right to be here than any of you.”

Dropping onto the chair, Brett shoots Stiles a look that screams ‘ _this is a bad idea_ ’ but doesn’t end up saying anything out loud. Perhaps because he doesn’t want to push Satomi's buttons more than he’s already done by hiding information from her. For some reason, Stiles doubts that she knows everything about the chimeras. He would bet that Brett hasn't exactly mentioned the unfortunate connection they have to the nemeton in particular.

“It’s polite to introduce yourself when you enter the room, young man,” Ken tells Theo with the kind of detached calmness only a teacher can achieve. It remains an odd question. Theo is a student at Beacon Hills High, and Stiles is pretty sure he is in one of Ken's history classes.

“Theo.” He raises his brows, assesses Ken for a few seconds, then adds with a condescending smile, “Raeken.”

Satomi studies his face. “I met your parents,” she tells him in a what’s probably her conversational tone. “How are they?”

The air of confidence and smugness upon getting into the house as easy as he did simply evaporates. Theo’s face hardens. His lips twist into a thin line. His jaw tightens. There’s a distinct spark of anger cutting through the air. He breathes in, nostrils flaring, and a smile returns to his lips – almost as if someone pulled the corners of his mouth up with a string. “Probably still trying to one-up each other,” he drawls feigning nonchalance but his eyes remain dark. “I haven’t seen or heard from them in six years.”

Stiles lets out a breath. “So, they’re still alive then.”

Theo’s gaze cut to Stiles’ immediately. He can feel his eyes like little pinpricks of needles on his cheek. “Are you insinuating something?”

“No,” Stiles says taking a sip of his now lukewarm tea. “I’m merely stating facts.”

Kira pokes his thigh, a clear warning that he should not pick a fight right now, then clears her throat. “We decided that nothing leaves the room.”

“I’m fine with that,” Theo says crossing his arms on the table. For being outnumbered, he’s extremely relaxed. “Surprised Scotty isn’t here.” Of course, he would bring that up. But he certainly isn’t wrong. Not at all, in fact, seeing that even Satomi is here. Sure, Stiles invited Brett on a whim but this feels extremely official for some reason. Maybe they _should_ invite him.

Noshiko sips her tea as Satomi answers, “we agree that Alan Deaton should not learn about you.”

“Deaton?” Jordan crosses his arms and leans back. “We're talking about the veterinarian?”

“We're talking about a shady bastard,” Brett mutters tapping the tip of his finger against the mug with a frown.

Satomi places a hand on his arm. “Deaton has been interested in harvesting the nemeton's power for years now. Through any means.” Like convincing three teenagers to connect to the nemeton to find it? They never even questioned if there’s another way. They just did what he told them even though it involved a strange ritual about drowning and anchors and dying. In hindsight, that's a pretty stupid thing to do but even though Deaton has never been very forthcoming, they didn't have too many reasons to distrust him. With a bit of distance, his opinion on the matter changed drastically. 

Brett rolls his eyes muttering something under his breath. There's more to that topic, and it's something they don't want to talk about. Stiles sits up straighter. He should've brought a notepad but he didn't expect a meeting before getting his hands on a katana and making a fool out of himself. Part kitsune or not, Stiles doubts he can handle a weapon like that. It doesn't sit quite right with him. 

“Deaton's loyalty is complicated,” Satomi adds after a moment of silence and pulls her hand away from Brett’s arm. “He is no doubt balancing to the mean, however, the mean can be a subjective matter.”

 _Great_. Stiles frowns. “What’s does it mean to keep the balance?”

“It means,” Satomi explains without Brett’s usual level of annoyance which, although expected, feels unusual seeing that, for the last few days, his questions haven’t exactly been met with any sort of enthusiasm, “to keep an even playing field on the nemeton-" she stops, taps a finger against the table once, then continues "-excuse me, your territory.”

 _His_ territory. Oh, that sounds fucking terrifying. How about no? Is there really no way to reset the whole thing? Maybe find someone else? Someone who actually knows what they are supposed to be doing? Stiles doubts he’s the right person for that job. “An even playing field?”

“Every pack has to be treated the same way,” Noshiko explains crossing her legs and leans back.

Stiles taps a finger against his bottom lip frowning. That’s probably what Brett meant yesterday. The born Hale wolves, as well as he and his sister, have all gotten the same advantage in strength. “So, I have to take care that werewolves like Deucalion don’t exist in my territory.” Hopefully. He can't wait to get his hands on that bastard after everything he's done to the Hale pack. Does he have the ability to summon a council? Because he's so going to the moment Deucalion as much as contemplates returning to Beacon County - and he's going to plead guilty. 

“Or werewolves like Scott?” Theo adds.

 _Oh no._ Stiles didn't even think about that. 

Brett looks at him. “Or science experiments like _you_.”

Setting her mug down, Satomi clears her throat and Brett stiffens in his chair. “While chimeras are a disruption, their existence does not leave a troublesome footprint in the balance. Without the Dread Doctors, nobody can create them any longer. When they reproduce their dominant DNA will influence their child. It will either be a human or a supernatural creature.”

“Like a kanima,” Stiles says before he can stop himself. A kanima is a bite gone wrong, an abomination. It’s _not_ a normal supernatural creature.

Noshiko nods. “Yes, one of the chimeras is a kanima.”

Theo tsks. “Our human DNA was modified with that of a werewolf. The rest came after we dug our way out of that hole they threw us in.” Again, his lips twist into a bitter a line, and although he looks at Stiles, his gaze is, for a brief second, far away. “If we live long enough to have kids, they will either be werewolves or humans.” His gaze snaps back to reality. He looks around the room before locking eyes with Satomi as he continues, “we don’t disturb your precious balance. You should worry about their attempts to recreate La Bête du Gévaudan.”

Jordan nods with the biggest scowl Stiles has ever seen on his face.

“We are aware of the threat,” Ken agrees.

Stiles glances at him, then at Theo who assesses Kira’s dad wordlessly before leaning back with a quiet scoff. Relief unfolds inside of him. He’s being a dick but at the very least he’s not actively trying to offend anyone.

“We will help you, Stiles.” Noshiko pulls the conversation easily back to its roots, and he gladly takes this chance to shift his attention away from Theo. “I will assist you in getting comfortable with your kitsune. Satomi is going to teach you everything she knows about the nemeton’s magic.”

His lips part for a ‘thank you’ but it gets stuck in his throat when he catches sight of Brett’s expression. The curl of his lips. The narrowed eyes. The secretive, almost disapproving glance he sneaks at Satomi right before she speaks, “our help comes with conditions.”

The relief turns sour, and he straightens, rubs his hands over his thighs. “What kind of conditions?”

Kira places a hand on his arms, her fingertips resting against the back of his wrist. Between her and Jordan on his other side, he calms a bit. There’s nothing to be worried about. This is fine. It’ll be simple conditions like being secretive, like being careful. That kind of thing. What else could they ask of him, really? 

Satomi looks at him, her straight posture a sharp contrast to her softening expression. “Keep your powers as secretive as you can. Use it only if there is no other way. For now. We need that head start.” Her spoon clinks against the mug as she needlessly stirs her tea. “You have to remain neutral. As the nemeton’s successor, every supernatural creature on your territory has to be treated the same way.” There it is again. His territory. _His_. Isn’t that an alpha thing? “We expect you to fulfill the role as the nemeton and the druid simultaneously which means that you’ll have to do whatever is necessary to maintain the balance.”

Jordan stiffens as he understands what she is insinuating. _We expect you to kill if there is no other option._ Just like Morell told him when he was possessed. She had given him two options; defeat the nogitsune or die with it.

Stiles swallows, glances at his hands as he takes a breath. What other option does he have? He can struggle through his powers on his own, wait for some werewolf to notice what he is and use him as a power source _or_ do everything it takes to keep this town safe, even if he doesn’t like some of the decision he will have to make. If they don’t want Deaton to know about it and there’s no way to put this power back where it came from, the only way that remains is through.

Swallowing around the lump in his throat, he nods. “Do I have to sign some form of contract?”

Noshiko chuckles while Satomi is looking like she’s seconds away from cracking a smile. “No,” the former says wrapping her hands around her mug, “we’ll take your word for it.”

“Cool,” Stiles replies feigning nonchalance terribly enough for Brett to throw him a pitying smile. “When do we start?”


	17. two truths and a lie

When he wraps his fingers around the katana, Stiles expects the same sense of right he felt when he picked up the branch. It doesn’t. Instead, his body is flooded with uncertainty – most likely because it terrifies him. His hand-to-eye coordination used to lack phenomenally. But that probably changed now as well. As he lifts the katana from the table, his attention shifts back to the corner next to the door where Satomi and Brett have been quietly discussing ever since they’ve entered a room downstairs – it probably was supposed to be used as a home gym, but the Yukimuras repurposed it – fifteen minutes ago. Neither of them looks truly furious but there’s a tang of irritation hanging in the air like a thin cloud on an otherwise bright summer’s day.

“Wanna know what they talk about?” Theo slides up next to him, voice inconspicuously quiet and close enough that their shoulders almost touch.

Stiles puts the katana back down. It catches the too bright light from the ceiling. Stiles frowns. It’s the type of weird lightning that gives him a headache. Not too bad, just enough to be irritating.

“No,” he replies eventually. It’s none of his business. Whatever it is they disagree about, he doesn’t have to know about it. He rolls his shoulders, glances over at Jordan who remains quiet in his own corner but his eyes are wary as they follow the chimeras movements.

Theo stays relentless. “They don’t trust you, Stiles.” His breath fans out over the back of his neck, his cheek, his jaw. “This isn’t practise, it's a test.” His smug grin is like an echo in the back of his mind, an imprint, something he can’t shake.

“Shut up,” Stiles hisses, his fingers brushing over a pair of ring daggers – kunai, he thinks, wondering if he read it somewhere or if Allison told him about it – heart heavy in his chest.

_Allison._

“Brett is angry,” Theo continues regardless, an amused chuckle in his tone. “He thinks she’s biased, and that she doesn’t trust his judgement.” It’s barely a whisper now, easily enough to ignore but Stiles can’t. He’s too attuned to his words, too aware of their proximity – yet he flinches as Theo places a hand on the small of his back. “You can sense it, can’t you?” he asks inhaling far too close to Stiles’ cheek; more like he wants to breathe in _Stiles_ rather than the chemosignals. “You enjoy that anger. You-"

Stiles slams his elbow in Theo’s face. The pain he expected, is nothing more than a dull ache for a second, like knocking your elbow against a solid object, and nothing compared to the time he punched Theo in the face. _Huh_ , good. Stiles wraps his fingers around the dagger and swiftly moves to press the tip against Theo’s throat, just over the place his pulse beats – speeding up right now, perhaps. Stiles likes to imagine that it does. That it makes Theo nervous. At least a little bit. 

“Hey-" but Jordan breaks off, and he doesn’t intervene. Neither do Brett and Satomi. They’re all watching, however, and Stiles can feel their eyes like little needles on the back of his neck.

Theo pulls his hand away from his nose. Blood has drawn a line down to his chin. He scowls, doesn’t move but doesn’t tip his head back to lessen the pressure either. “You need more than that toothpick to hurt me.”

Stiles grinds his teeth. He doesn’t lean in although every part of his body really, _really_ wants him to. For once, he'll listen to his brain. “And you need more than little white lies to make me choose your side.”

“Why would I lie?”

Good question. Why would he? Why would he lie to him now? Why would he lie to him after everything blew up in his face anyway? Stiles’ grip around the kunai loosens, and he stares at Theo, lips pressed into a thin line. “Why would I know why you do anything?” he asks maintaining his distance to Theo, maintaining the rest of his dignity that warns him not to throw it away, listening to the voice in the back of his mind that any step will be a step too close.

Theo shakes his head. “I see the potential,” he whispers but when he shifts closer, Stiles reapplies pressure to the dagger, nicks his skin, draws blood. He swallows heavily. “You and I, Stiles-“ Theo closes his hand around the one Stiles’ has clasped around the kunai “-we have so much potential. I know you feel that too.” What the _fuck_ is he doing talking about something like that with Satomi, Brett, and Jordan around? Why would he even _think_ that? “Together, nothing can stop us.”

His touch is scalding, his skin burning Stiles’ everywhere they touch. He tries to pull back, but Theo tightens his grip, tightens his hold on him refusing to let go. It gets to him. He hates it, hates everything about it – how his throat constricts, how his heartbeat picks up, how his body doesn’t reject the touch as it should. “Well,” he says struggling to keep his voice void of any emotion, trying to play down how much Theo’s words and behaviour get to him, “I suppose nuclear bombs might do the trick, don’t you think?”

Someone snorts out a laugh.

Theo’s grip tightens momentarily. “You know I am _right_ ,” he snaps pulling him closer, trying to reel him in. “You know I am the only one-“

Stiles punches him. Hard. His knuckles scream in pain as his fist connects with Theo’s cheekbone. It has vanished completely by the time the chimera turns his head back towards him. Stiles stares, surprised about losing control, irritated that he barely did anything, pissed off about Theo trying to get into his head, satisfied because of the stunned expression on the other’s face. All those emotions collide, culminate in a single, all-encompassing wish. _Fight_ _back_. Thoughts taped to the roof of his mouth. Thoughts refusing to turn into words. For a second, two, three, nobody moves, then Theo tackles him. A move he didn’t see coming. Stiles hits the ground. The dagger clatters over the floor, out of reach. His hand feels empty, wrong, too used to the weight of the weapon in his hand already.

Expecting a punch, Stiles raises both hands. It’s not a defence, it’s serving himself up on the silver platter. Without further ado, Theo grabs his wrists, pins his hands against the unforgiving floor. He’s right there. Right on top of him. Straddling his hips. He leans down, close enough that for a second, Stiles is afraid he’ll kiss him – a thought coming so far out of the left-field, he doesn’t catch the beginning of Theo's sentence, “- that’s why they’re upstairs with Kira.” The grip on his wrists is so tight, he fears his bones are going to snap.

His heart hammers against his chest. It’s the proximity. The fear. The straight-up terror that his body wants something so entirely different from what’s right, that it captures his body and mind and Stiles uses his head differently for the first time. Pain explodes behind his eyes when his forehead connects with Theo’s nose again; pain he quickly learns to ignore. Stiles uses the time between the impact and Theo’s surprise to spin them around instead.

 _Fight back_.

He still doesn’t say it, doesn’t want people to know how much he _needs_ this fight, how much he hopes this fight will change the game, but Theo blocks his punch, grabs his fist. When he opens his eyes, they flash yellow momentarily – _gotcha_ – and he sends him flying off with a single hit to the face. Lights explode behind his eyes. Pain echoes through his cheek, up to his temple, ricochets in his skull. This time, it lingers and that takes Stiles more by surprise than Theo finally caving in.

“Stiles-"

The warning doesn’t reach him. Through the blood rushing in his ears, he can’t even say if it’s Jordan or Brett or even Theo trying to appeal to his senses. He’s on his feet and Theo again in a heartbeat. But the other is prepared now, easily finds a way to push past Stiles’ meekly defences and swings him around. He doesn’t punch him, just shoves him away. His hip connects with the table, sends another sharp uncomfortable zap of pain through his body.

The katana catches his eye, its sharp blade glinting in the fluorescent light of the room, almost like it’s winking at him. Stiles hears footsteps behind him. The fingers of his left hand curl around something hard and wooden, something round and firm, something so familiar although he’s never held it before. He turns around, and the Bo staff connects with Theo’s jaw. Although he staggers for a second, he’s regained his balance before Stiles placed his hands properly. He hit him just as hard as he did in the forest – why doesn’t it have the same fucking effect? It’s like he’s not as strong as he was yesterday.

Theo’s eyes flash yellow, his claws come free with a snick. _Fine_ , his body language seems to say, _have it your way._

It’s still Stiles who moves first, the staff in his hand like a simple extension of his limbs. He moves like it makes no difference - as if he doesn’t even hold anything, as if he’s never done anything else. It’s easy, fast, keeps Theo on his toes – and at a distance. Over and over Stiles cuts the Bo staff through the air, swipes at Theo who keeps blocking every hit with a certain kind of ease. Like it doesn’t matter; and maybe it doesn’t. Stiles notices the difference to last night. He feels _limited_. Not as fast, not as strong, like someone put him on a leash.

From one second to the other, Theo ducks instead of blocks his attack and lunges at Stiles. His shoulder crashes into his ribcage, eliciting a sharp pang of pain just above his heart. It takes his breath and balance. They’re stumbling. Stiles’ heart hammers against his chest, fingers and hands grappling for purchase on Theo's shoulders. His left foot slips on something, and he loses the connection to the floor. Theo lets go off him, gives Stiles' a shove and lets him fall. For a second, it's like he's suspended in mid-air – disbelief and surprise slowing everything - nothing within reach that could stop him from falling.

The ground does nothing to cushion the impact. It knocks the air out of him; all of it rushing past his parted lips at once.

Without further ado, Theo yanks the staff out of Stiles’ hands and throws it across the room. Like the kunai before, it clatters over the floor, then rolls until it bumps against the wall. Here he is, weaponless, defenceless and strangely useless. Stiles watches the staff with a frown then lets his gaze dart back to Theo.

But Theo doesn’t look at him. His eyes are locked on something behind him. Too late, Stiles notices footsteps. “Pathetic,” Brett comments, and his fingers curl into the fabric of Stiles' shirt. He hauls him onto his feet without warning.

“Predictable,” Satomi corrects.

Stiles turns to look at her just in time to see her smiling at Brett. His scowl doesn’t fully vanish but he seems to be willing enough to offer her the hint of a smile.

Theo picked up on it, too, if his scoff is any indication. “They played you.”

“We tested him,” Noshiko explains her hands folded in front of her. Stiles hasn’t even heard her, Ken and Kira approaching. But she’s standing in the doorway studying him before she turns to Theo and says, “your negative influence made the test much more effective.”

Theo curls his lips in disdain. It seems as if Stiles wasn’t the only one who’s been played. _Asshole_.

“I don’t get it.”

Kira smiles apologetically.

“We needed to assess how much of a nogitsune you truly are and were surprised to see you trying to diffuse the situation instead of adding to the strife between Brett and Satomi,” Ken continues leaning against the doorframe with his right shoulder. His ever so patient teacher smile tugs at his lips. So, Brett _did_ tell her everything, and they just lied about it? But he felt his annoyance. Not just upstairs, down here as well. They can’t fake it that well... can they? Ken reads his mind. “We barely needed to fabricate anything. Not with Brett crossed about the idea with the tea.”

 _The tea_? His dumbstruck expression causes Kira to laugh behind her hand. He didn’t drink any tea. He pretended to but he didn’t- should he tell them? What the _hell_ is going on?

“Mountain ash,” Noshiko explains with an unexpected smile. “Just enough that it would’ve affected a real supernatural creature.” _Oh_. Oh, no. “Even with as little as you drank.”

Out of instinct, Stiles turns to look at Jordan but the way his gaze is jumping around indicates that he didn’t have a single clue about the real reason for this meeting either. He can’t believe he didn’t notice anything. He can’t believe- no. How could he have noticed anything? Just yesterday he was admitting to himself that he can’t read Brett at all nor has he ever met Satomi before today. And he didn’t drink any tea at all. His stomach contorts painfully. If he tells them, they might think he noticed something and tried to avoid it. But if they figure it out later- _fuck_. What should he do?

Jordan clears his throat. “What… does that mean?”

“It means we don't have to worry about the nogitsune coming back,” Noshiko says before turning to her husband placing a hand on his shoulder. “Ken will help you with your weapons.” Just like that, the topic is done. It's over. Everything is solved when it isn't because Stiles didn't drink the tea. He didn't. Not a single sip. Instead of saying anything, he presses his lips into a thin line and follows her gaze to the Bo staff on the other side of the room. Her lips twitch but Stiles can’t tell if she’s trying to hide a smile or a disapproving curl. “It’s an interesting choice,” she notes eventually. She doesn't sound particularly exhilarated. Well, considering who - and what - he might have to fight, her disapproval is understandable.

Stiles crosses and uncrosses his arms, gaze lingering on the staff for a second. “I don’t like to be able to kill someone just like that.” It gives him a kind of power that doesn’t sit well with him. It gives him a certain power he doesn’t trust himself with completely. Not now. Not ever. That 

Satomi exchanges a long look with Noshiko, then she says, “you might have to. Our rules are different than those of humans.” _Yes_ , like becoming the leader via killing the predecessor. It starts with little things. They are wild creatures living in the shadows of a race who’d either destroy or use them – and even those who seek to kill them won’t even hesitate to use their powers to their advantage. 

Furrowing his brows, Stiles turns to look at the katana.

“It doesn’t have to be your weapon,” Kira says calmly as if she understands what’s going on.

Brett lets out a breath. “Not to criticise your choice of weapon but that pissed off dude trying to kill you the other night? He won’t be stopped if you whack him with a broomstick.”

Theo, who comes to stand right next to Stiles, looks like he’d rather bite his tongue off than to agree with Brett.

Ken pushes away from the doorframe. “I can help with that.”

What the fuck are you doing in LA?” Stiles asks staring at his phone in disbelief, hoping he somehow misheard her. She left town and didn’t say a word about it? He gets that the reason for her sudden departure must be important but not even a text message? Sure, she isn’t obliged to keep him up to date with everything that’s going on in her life. With Beacon Hills preparing for the third act by piling shit on top of shit, he kinda expected to hear about these drastic decisions.

Lydia waves her hand around. “You were at the hospital, and you had that meeting with Noshiko.” And Brett, and Satomi. He’s going to tell her one day. Not over the phone, though. There’s too much important information, and he doesn’t feel comfortable sharing that during a video call.

Stiles is pretty sure she’s about to fall asleep sitting up. “Lydia-" his words catch in his throat. What should he say? _Come back, I need you_? She wouldn’t have left if it wasn’t absolutely important. That’s not like her. _Still_. Knowing she’s gone makes him feel terribly alone. He shouldn’t be this dependant but- fucking hell, he _is._ Surviving this town without her seems impossible.

Lydia grimaces, almost like she hates everything about what’s going on, and shakes her head. “I’ll be back before you know it, Stiles.” Her eyes dart to somewhere above the phone. Natalie’s voice rings out in the background, quiet enough that Stiles can’t catch her words. Lydia contemplates for a second, nails rapping against the back of her phone. “Sushi,” she states eventually and a door clicks shut. Her gaze darts back to the phone, eyes raking over his face and she draws her brows in, “how did the meeting go?”

“I’ll tell you when we see each other next time,” Stiles says quietly, hating that there’s an edge of bitterness sneaking into his tone.

Her face falls. “Stiles-.”

“No, it’s- this is all stressing me out,” Stiles mutters rubbing a hand over his face with a frown. This new reality crashed into him like a meteor, fast and unavoidable, burying deep inside, destroying everything in its path, leaving behind nothing but irreparable damage. The only people who he’d trust with the pieces left behind are Lydia, his dad, and Scott. But Lydia is gone right now, his dad isn’t fit enough to help him rebuild the pieces and Scott- well, he _trusted_ Scott, who might not want to help him any longer, or maybe Stiles doesn’t want him to. The jury is still out on that. He didn’t really have a lot of time to think about anything at all the last couple of days – aside from Theo, the threat looming over their heads and his very own mess.

“We’ll sort this out, we’ll always do, don’t we?” Her eyes are wide, and for a split second, she looks like the young teenage girl she should be, not the banshee who went through much more than other people in their whole life. They all are so much older than they should be. There is exhaustion in his bones that had nothing to do with physical exercise or not enough sleep. She feels it too. He can see it in her eyes.

Stiles pulls his knees to his chest watches her smiling encouragingly at him through the camera of her phone. “I love you,” he says, words that he wanted to tell her since he noticed her in third grade. They are different now, stronger than ever, and roll over his tongue with a piece of his soul that belongs to her.

Her smile softens. “I love you too.”

His heart grows at least two sizes, and he can’t help but laugh quietly. “Great, now that that’s off our chests-" a text message pops up on his screen, distracting him.

>> _It’s important. Text me back. Brett_

“What’s up?” Lydia sounds almost alarmed by the sudden change of mood.

Stiles draws his eyebrows together, shakes his head as if that helped him make any sense of the situation. “Brett just texted me.”

Lydia’s brows climb high and higher. “ _The_ Brett Talbot?”

Stiles shoots her a look.

With a chuckle, she raises her free hand in defence. “I couldn’t resist. What does he want?”

That’s a very good question. This morning he told him he’s only helping because of Isaac. Stiles had to practically force himself into his life not even 24 hours ago, and now the guy has his phone number and- and what? What does he want? “I don’t know. He just said that it’s important.”

“Well, answer him!”

Stiles pushes past the confusion fogging up his mind. For a second, his fingers hover over the keys. What _could_ he want?

_Something up with Isaac? <<_

What other reason could he have to text him? It has to be Isaac. It has to- the three dots appear in their little bubble, and Stiles tries not to hold his breath while waiting for a response. _Please, be ok_.

>> _Nothing more than usual_

_> > Can we meet? Frankie’s?_

Stiles nibbles on the side of his index finger in contemplation. Brett wants them to meet in person. That’s never good. Not at all. If he wants to talk about something they can’t discuss over the phone, Stiles should probably back out and hide under the blankets. He’s got enough on his plate as it is. Any other problem of apocalyptic measures can wait in line.

“What? Did he reply?” Lydia asks snapping her fingers multiple times in a row to get his attention.

 _Right_ , they are still on the phone. “He wants to meet me,” Stiles says slowly, eyes dragging from the message to the minimised call window Lydia watches him from.

Her eyebrows climb even higher. “Alone?” It doesn’t take long for her confused expression to yield amusement. That’s the last thing he needs right now.

“I don’t know.”

_No car. <<_

Again, Brett replies almost instantly.

>> _Outside._

Stiles jumps to his feet and hurries to the window. That’s a joke, isn’t it? Dropping his phone on the couch – Lydia complains audibly about being tossed around – he clambers onto it and stares out the window. Sure enough, leaning against the hood of his sleek car, Brett stands in front of the entrance to the apartment complex looking down at his phone. Isaac nowhere to be seen. Unless he’s in the car. _Please,_ be in the car. They haven’t reached hanging out alone levels of friendship yet. No. Wait. This makes it weird. It doesn’t have to be weird. They are _allies_. That’s it. That’s- _fuck,_ he’s making things weird just because Brett’s hot and has a reputation.

“Fuck me,” he breathes bouncing back off the couch in a hurry. Snatching his phone, he almost forgets Lydia until she snaps his name. _Right_. Stiles licks his lips, glances down at her. “I’ll explain everything tomorrow,” he promises, aware that Lydia will be as happy about his sudden departure as he was about hers. “Gotta go.” And he hangs up.

The car ride is quiet and kind of strange. Scratch that. Most definitively strange. Aside from Stiles’ dinner alarm as well as three messages from Lydia telling him to _‘have fun', ‘be careful'_ and _‘don’t worry about Liam!!’_ or the quiet music of the radio, they don’t talk at all. Entering the diner turned out to be a bit less weird. But then Brett paid for their food which made the whole thing very weird again. When their orders finally arrive, and they still haven't spoken a word, Stiles couldn't keep his mouth shut any longer, "what is this about?"

Brett contemplates his burger and fries for a second then decides that both need more ketchup. The amount of food he has in front of him doesn’t want to fit an athlete like him but Stiles notices the changes in his own body already. He’s been hungry all damn day long. Perhaps that’s why he wasn’t up to speed when he fought Theo earlier. If being semi-supernatural does such a number on his body, he really doesn't want to know what actually using the nemeton's magic will do to him - aside from killing him in case he uses too much of it at once. Maybe he shouldn't use it at all. Seems like the safest outcome for everyone.

Scowling, Stiles shoves a curly fry into his mouth shaking his head when he’s offered the ketchup.

“I gotta tell you something,” Brett says inspecting his burger with the critical gaze of a master chef.

Stiles quirks a brow. That's so not an answer to his question. But he swallows the remark and decides to go the less annoyed route, "you have my phone number.”

“It’s nothing you talk about over the phone,” Brett tells him finally satisfied enough with his food that he looks at him. Truth be told, Stiles isn’t quite sure what kind of topic couldn’t be discussed over the phone while it fits in a dinky diner somewhere in the outskirts of Beacon Hills where the only people you meet are either truckers or junkies.

Stiles shifts around on the bench. “What is?”

Brett dips his fries into the sea of ketchup on his plate, scowls first at him, then his food and drops everything with a huff. “It’s about Deaton.” Deaton. That admission should probably be less surprising. Satomi had explicitly stated that he’s the one person who shouldn’t learn about the newest development regarding the nemeton. At least not now. _But when_? Deaton knows things. Just because Stiles doesn’t like him, doesn’t mean Deaton isn’t a valid option to go to for help. He’s helped them so far, hasn’t he? And yet, he’s never been Stiles’ first choice.

Stiles licks his lips. “What about him?”

“Satomi always tries to be neutral about everything,” Brett says pulling his shoulders up in a slow shrug. His voice is strangely hesitant, almost as if the wolf inside of him doesn’t want to speak ill of its alpha – if that’s even a thing. Who knows? Stiles definitively doesn’t. “Even someone like Deaton even though that piece of shit doesn’t deserve it.” Okay, _that’s_ a statement. “You know that Talia was the only one who knew about Deaton?”

Nibbling on a curly fry, Stiles nods. Some packs are weird like that. He personally doesn’t get it. Hiding the emissary from the rest of a pack feels like a strange decision to make but maybe that’s a personal thing. Hiding shit, keeping secrets – it ruins the pack bonds. It ruins _everything_. He’s experienced it first-hand. Nothing good ever comes from keeping secrets. Pushing the truth back and further back gives room for lies and people fucking everything up. People like Theo, who look for these types of weaknesses to then use them and tear a pack apart. Maybe telling Scott immediately about Donovan would’ve spared him a lot of panic. Then again, giving Theo time to come up with his convoluted lie showed him what Scott really thinks of him. Even if they approach each other again, their relationship won’t be the same. This is something Stiles can’t forgive- something he doesn’t _want_ to forgive. Not now. Not anytime soon. Maybe in the future but even then, Stiles can’t see them become brothers again. Acquaintances perhaps but nothing more. He doubts Scott disagrees with this assessment after Stiles left him paralysed in the tunnels underneath Beacon Hills.

“Deaton didn’t know about the members of her pack either,” Brett continues tapping the edge of his cup. “Well, he knew about her family, of course, but not the others. She didn’t trust him enough.”

Stiles furrows his brows. “Why then make him her emissary?”

“Like I said, werewolves are assholes.” Brett finally shoves a couple fries into his mouth, stares out the window and lets the words sink in. _Even someone like Talia Hale._ “The chance of finding an emissary who is an active Druid is rare,” he continues, eyes darting back to hold Stiles' gaze. “Finding him in a place with a nemeton is even rarer. His advice wasn’t strictly bad but his motives are... questionable.” So, she kept him because his connection to the nemeton gave her more power, and she told him only the bare minimum about her pack to make sure they’re safe.

Running a finger along the edge of the table, Stiles frowns. “Why didn’t she trust him?”

“Talia Hale was an amazing alpha regardless. Strong. Loving. Fair. A problem solver. But she had a weakness.” Brett fidgets with the straw in his cup. Again, he frowns and avoids answering the question, gaze flickering outside, and Stiles more and more gets the impression that they shouldn’t be talking about this – so, that’s why they’re here outside Beacon Hills hiding like a secret affair. “Deaton made some questionable decisions leaning more towards personal gain than the safety of her family. So, she pulled away from him shortly before the fire. That’s why many werewolves speculated he helped Kate get close to Derek.”

“What?” That’s not- _no_. He wouldn’t, would he? There’s a lot Deaton might be capable of but _that_? Stiles crosses and uncrosses his arms, chews on the inside of his cheek. Misdirecting the pack’s efforts? Giving questionable advice? Constantly speaking in riddles? _Fine_. He can roll with that. It’s human. Helping Kate murder the pack he is supposed to guide by allowing her to commit statutory rape, though? That’s a whole new level.

Brett regards his shock with a smirk. “I don’t believe it either. It's the type of rumour people make up to find a scapegoat and put a mystery to rest.”

“Why would people even believe that?” Stiles rams his fork into the curly fries glaring at his burger as if it personally offended him. This really isn’t the topic to discuss over curly fries. This is the type of conversation you’d have over a glass of scotch or whiskey or something equally numbing.

“Because Deaton was the one insisting Peter would kill his kids if he ever found out they’re not supernatural.” He bites into his burger as if he’s informed him that the colour of the sky is indeed blue. But he _didn't_ tell him something completely obvious. 

Stiles freezes with his fork halfway on the way to his mouth. Kids. He blinks. Did he hear that correctly? No. He couldn’t. _Kids_? Plural? That’s a mistake. It _has_ to be a mistake. Peter doesn’t have kids. He has one child. A daughter. “Malia,” he says lowering his fork pre-emptively. The last thing he needs is dropping his food everywhere. It might not have cost a fortune, but Brett paid for it. That would be plain rude.

Gulping down the burger with his drink, Brett draws his eyebrows together. “Who?”

“Malia,” Stiles repeats then add, “Tate. She’s his daughter- _Peter’s_ daughter.”

Brett stares at him as if he’s grown a second head. “Who the fuck told you that?”

With the conviction those words are thrown at him, Stiles doubts his memory for a moment. But- but _no_. That’s what they learned. “Lydia,” he replies hesitantly furrowing his brows, confusion picking up. “She heard it from Talia's claws. Her banshee, I mean. She- there were whispers from dead people involved?” Considering the way he phrased that, Stiles can't even blame Brett for staring at him as if he's lost his mind. But, the fact remains, she _did_ learn it by throwing a dead werewolf's claws across a room. He’s not imagining things. No. No, no. Allison and Peter have both witnessed it. Lydia _told_ Peter that Malia is his child. Scott heard it. They _kept_ this secret from Malia. How can they be wrong?

Silence stretches between them. Long and heavy. Only interrupted by the conversations of the other customers, the clanging of porcelain, barstools scraping over tiles. Stiles can’t stop gaping at Brett, who keeps looking back at him with furrowed brows.

“No,” he says eventually leaning back with crossed arms, “that girl isn't Peter's daughter. He has two sons.”


	18. precaution

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, it took me so long with the chapter. I started a full-time job and still have to settle into a new routine. Everything's a bit hectic but I hope it'll get better soon(ish)! 
> 
> Thanks for sticking around, too. You're all too kind! <3 <3 <3

“Who?” Too many questions circle around in his head but somehow that’s the one he chose to go with first. It’s not that he’s that desperate to tell two poor boys their families – family? Are they twins? Did they grow up together? Do they _know_ about each other? – and happy lives are based on a giant secret, and that their biological father is actually a lunatic and serial killer _and_ werewolf. Out of all the confessions, the latter even the worst one. 

Brett raises a brow. “Who 'who'?”

This is not the time to fuck around. Not even a little bit. “His _sons_ ,” Stiles stresses jabbing the fork in the other boy's direction. The curly fry goes flying, bounces off Brett's cup and lands in the sea of ketchup. They both ignore it. “Who are his sons?” Two Hales being let loose in the world is a terrible idea, especially if they are Peter Hale's children. They probably only have to follow the path of destruction, sass, and designer clothes. 

Brett tosses two fries into his mouth with a shrug. “I don’t know.” He swallows assessing the curly fry on his plate like he’s witnessing blasphemy, then returns his attention back to Stiles. “My mom was the secret keeper.” His gaze jumps outside for two deeps breaths. His lips curls slightly. His jaw sets. A moment later, he looks back at Stiles. “She died with the truth.” For the flicker of a second, Brett’s eyes gloss over and he closes them, squeezes them shut. It’s a far too familiar feeling, scraping, burning, emptying. Brutal. All consuming.

Swallowing his questions, Stiles casts his eyes down. The last thing he wants to do is pushing further. The questions are piling up but he’s definitively not going to let them out for once. He locks them underneath his jaw, clears his throat and busies himself with the food right in front of him. He’s hungry anyway, and he’s never ever been good at the emotional shit with strangers. He should be, though, especially right now. After all, he’s well-versed in the loss of a mother. However, Stiles doesn’t want to talk about it with anybody but his dad, so he severely doubts Brett wants to even mention it at all; even less discuss it with someone who's basically a stranger.

“I’m not going to have a nervous breakdown, y'know?” His words have an edge, they’re almost too sharp. Not surprising. He’s been in the same situation often enough himself.

Stiles swallows the avalanche of curly fries and nods. "Probably because they're calling it major depressive episode now.”

Brett doesn't break eye-contact when he shoves three more fries into his mouth looking completely done with everything and everyone. 

Clearing his throat, Stiles rubs the back of his head. "Well, I just mean... I... I know."

"Oh, shit. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap at you."

Stiles shrugs. "It's whatever. You didn't know." 

“Yeah... right.” It says a lot about Brett’s character that he shifts in his seat playing with his straw. The silence hangs heavy for longer than strictly necessary, for longer than comfortable. After a moment, Brett clears his throat, “anyway. We don’t know who his sons are.” His voice needs more time than expected until it has found the casual tone again.

Stiles nods slowly, watches as Brett bites into his burger. “Why did she talk to your mom?”

“She was her right hand. Whatever decision Talia made, my mom was always with her.”

“But she didn’t know about Deaton?”

Brett shakes his head.

Stiles swallows again, already hating himself for what he’s about to say. “Why’d she never say anything?”

A zap of anger cuts through the air at his words; he flinches more because he notices than because of the scalding glare send in his direction. “I said she was _with_ her, not that she always agreed with her,” Brett reminds him, voice cold, expression stony. A reaction that’s not too surprising. Nobody would react well if someone spoke ill of their family. Well, nobody aside from Theo. But Theo is a special case so... it’s not like they’re comparable.

“She agreed to become her secret keeper.” Whatever that’s supposed to be.

Brett flicks the lone curly fry. “Talia and she have been friends since they were little. They trusted each other but...” he frowns, rolls his shoulders. “She also knew Peter just as long, and he's _complicated_.”

Stiles snorts out a laugh. Complicated is a very interesting expression to use for the one and only Peter Hale. It’s certainly also one of the nicest options he could’ve chosen.

“If she’d known that Deaton influenced her, maybe she would’ve declined.” Maybe. _Maybe_. Nobody knows. It’s hard to judge what happened in the past and for what reason. Especially when Peter is part of the reason. Or Deaton. Neither is particularly predictable in their actions - unless he counts their unpredictability as predictable. 

Stiles shakes his head. “If they’ve been friends that long, your mother trusted Talia.” Because that’s what friends do, what they _should_ do. They certainly shouldn’t trust a random stranger after being warned repeatedly not to fall for his blue eyes and obvious lies. Theo knows how to butter an ego. Deaton has the same skill. Scott fell for them both. But Talia? He barely remembers her from when he was little, and the few time he met her when she picked up Cora from elementary school isn’t exactly enough to form a picture. Still, after everything he's heard about her it's hard to imagine she fell for a few compliments. 

“Deaton knows how to get into other people’s heads,” Brett mutters squeezing the straw of his soft drink. “In stressful situations especially.” The ghost of a smile tugs at his lips when he says, “he’s gotten to you too, and you are the most distrustful person I heard of.” For some reason, that feels more like a compliment than an insult, and Stiles grins briefly then returns to his food. Brett chuckles and runs a hand over his face.

Stiles tears off a piece of his pizza bread. He'd love to drop the topic now but there is still one question he can’t shake. “Why did the claws tell Lydia Malia is his daughter?”

Brett smiles, corners of his eyes crinkling slightly. It’s an expression he should wear more often than his stoic, too-cool-for-school one. Not that Stiles is _ever_ going to mention that _._ “Nothing goes past that keen attention of yours, huh?” Okay, now he feels like he’s mocking him. Why does he feel like Brett is mocking him? “My mom stole Talia's memories and implanted new ones into her in case Peter would ever find out about having children. Malia was simply the safest option because she’s a born supernatural.”

The piece of bread flops from his fingers. This time, Stiles is aware enough to catch it before it joins the curly fry on Brett’s plate. “His sons are _human_?”

“Yeah?” The guy sounds like that should be totally obvious which it isn’t. Not at all. How the fuck is he supposed to know about anything at all when it comes to something related to the Hale family. Derek only shared whatever he deemed necessary for their current situation – which was his right, Stiles gets that – in hindsight, however, it’s a bit frustrating.

Stiles rips his bread apart. “Must be frustrating.”

“Depends on the werewolf.”

Chewing on a piece of his pizza bread, he contemplates Brett for a while. Deaton tried to gain power through the nemeton with the help of serving Talia who didn’t trust him but used him for power regardless. Peter has fun in the meantime and knocks up at least one woman, only to have the memory stolen from him for his human children’s safety. _Damn,_ werewolves are messy. “This is a lot to take in,” Stiles says rubbing the back of his hand over his cheek before biting into his bread. “How often does that happen?”

Brett looks at him over the top of his burger. “What?”

Swallowing Stiles waves his hand around. “That a werewolf has a non-werewolf kid.”

“With a human?” Brett draws his eyebrows together in slight confusion. “Always. The werewolf allele is recessive.”

Stiles blinks. “Seriously?”

“Dude, _balance_.” Brett rolls his eyes as if he’s regurgitating the same thing over and over again although they’ve never spoken about this before- hell, Stiles hasn’t even thought about that before. “We can turn humans via a bite. They will be weaker werewolves but they’re still werewolves. If werewolves could use humans as a breeding machine, trust me, a lot of them would’ve done that.” It’s always strange to hear how little faith Brett has in his own species. He wonders if that’s something he has been taught or if it’s something he has experience with. After everything has heard about Satomi, it might be learnt behaviour. She isn’t very trusting in werewolves.

Stiles barely resists the urge to collapse onto the table. “Fucking balance.”

“Better get used to it.”

Fucking hell. Stiles shoves another piece of pizza bread into his mouth and stares out the window. This is fucked up. This is _so_ fucked up. He shouldn’t even be in this position. He _should not_. But here he is. Here he’s stuck in this bullshit with responsibilities he has not a single clue about, he doesn’t even know how to handle in the first place. “Where can I resign?”

“Nowhere,” Brett says twisting his lips into what’s probably supposed to be a comforting smile. It’s so much more pitying than it should be. “Listen,” he says nudging his foot to force his attention back towards him. Stiles bets that usually not something he has to do. The guy is the type of person who keeps another person’s attention by simply existing in their orbit. “We're not gonna let you do this alone. Isaac would turn me into a fur coat, and-“ Brett’s jaw tightens momentarily then he sighs “- and I owe you, dude.”

This might actually be the worst moment to put this confession out in the open, but he also can't keep this a secret for much longer. That would be plain unfair. They're offering help and support. He just _can't_ keep omitting a very important fact. Stiles scrunches up his face and stares at his plate. “I didn’t drink the tea.”

Brett stiffens, burger inches from his mouth. “What?”

“The tea, I- I didn’t _know_ ,” Stiles stutters, twists his hands. “All of this scares the shit out of me, so I only pretending to drink something. If I had known-“

Heaving a sigh, Brett drops his burger, wipes his hands on the seat and gets to his feet. “Come on.”

Stiles can’t tell if Brett is actually mad at him or just not the most talkative when he’s in the car. This time, he cannot stand the silence, cannot listen to the radio announcer ceaselessly telling them how great this song is or that and this one especially. He reaches for the radio and turns it off, trying to ignore the stench of anger in the car like a snake working its way up his trying to get to him. There’s only so long that he can ignore it. There’s only so long that he can stomach this hunger; hunger that runs deeper than needing food.

A hunger that terrifies him.

“What are you gonna do?”

Brett glances at him out of the corner of his eye. “Taking you to a party.”

Stiles whips his head around. Headlights illuminate Brett’s profile, skin as pale as his knuckles around the steering wheel. “A _party_?”

“Yup,” Brett says checking over his shoulder before swiftly moving onto the left lane. There’s something careless in the way he drives like he knows a car crash won’t do anything to him- to _them_. “We’ve got spiked drinks. You're probably not a real nogitsune, so the whole thing is just a precaution. If you’re _are_... well, tough luck, buddy.” He laughs softly, quietly, shoulders shaking gently. The whole situation isn’t particularly funny. Sure, Brett’s general reaction is relatively relieving seeing that Stiles thought he won’t be too happy about the admission but at the very least he’s not accusing him of anything else.

Stiles gapes at him. “Why the _fuck_ are we going to a party?”

The motor growls when Brett upshifts a bit more violently than strictly necessary. “Because it’s a Saturday night. That’s what teenagers are supposed to do.” Not in their town. Not with a monster running around. Not with three psychopaths moving to town trying to turn a teenager into their strongest beast. That’s just the worst idea _ever_. Parties should be the last thing on their fucking mind right now. But here he is, stuck in Brett’s car being basically kidnapped unless he decides to jump out of a fast-moving car in the middle of an interstate.

Stiles draws his eyebrows together, studies his profile for a moment. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

“You want me to take you to Satomi?” Brett asks glancing at him out of the corner of his eye. “Because she won’t let it rest with a spiked drink.” No. She probably won’t. In fact, she won’t take this well at all. How could she? Seeing how everything is, he might as well have lied about it because he noticed that they put mountain ash in the tea and only pretended to drink it in order to lead them on. But he didn’t. He’d never do that. Proving that he isn’t an actual nogitsune benefits his own mental well-being just as much as it would calm their nerves.

Shaking his head, Stiles returns his attention back towards the window. “That’ll be enough?”

Brett places a hand on his leg, squeezes it tightly just above his knee. “You’re not a nogitsune. Not really.”

Stiles closes his eyes. “What if I’m just a really good actor?”

“Don’t take this personal but you aren’t that good of an actor.” Brett pulls his hand away, curls his fingers back around the gearshift to speed up even further. They’ve waved the recommended speed limit goodbye a while ago, and Stiles has seriously no idea where the fuck this party is supposed to be because they’ve left Beacon Hills a while ago and are headed towards the old industrial area with big fat no trespassing signs and a night guard – and Stiles probably shouldn’t be surprised about this location at all. Brett isn’t the type of person who’d enjoy a simple house party. He needs something _big_ , an adrenaline kick. The struggle. The trouble. The danger.

Something in Stiles’ unknots.

The risk of being caught. The chaos of having to run away from security.

A smirk tugs at the corner of Stiles’ mouth. “Who knows? Maybe I just want you to think that.”

“You’re a very interesting person, Stiles Stilinski.”

Isaac beams at him when he climbs out of Brett’s car and moves away from the group of people standing in front of a closed gate of a warehouse. They’re all huddled in warm hoodies, carry blankets and backpacks full of what’s most definitively booze. It’s immediately clear that they haven’t pulled a stunt like this for the first time. House parties with alcohol are one thing. This is _new_ – and Stiles likes it. Sure, they have enough on their plate already but having one night off won’t end in the destruction of this fucking town, right? Lydia left for one night as well; and there’s still Scott. As the alpha, he can do some fucking work. Or Satomi. _Someone_ that’s not him. He needs this. A night off. A night of fun.

His last night, perhaps. Even though Brett constantly reminds him that this is nothing but a precaution, that the risk of him being an actual nogitsune is basically zero - there's still doubt gnawing at the back of his mind. The nogitsune, after all, is still alive and who knows what powers it might have even from the prison it's in. 

“He convinced you?” Isaac asks with bright eyes and a genuinely happy smile.

Stiles shoots Brett a look, who slams his door shut with a scoff. “He kidnapped me.”

Isaac rolls his eyes. “Why am I not surprised?” Either because Brett is a born werewolf or because he’s _Brett_. Both seem to be two very valid explanations for the rather rough treatment of his peers. Well, not that the guy treated him roughly in any way. “No, seriously, mate. Your communications skills are abysmal.” Poor Isaac. First, he has to deal with Derek’s lack of general communication – yes, the guy did talk but only when it came to life and death situations – and now he has to deal with the same damn thing all over again. Although Stiles is pretty sure that Brett does talk just not necessarily about the decisions he’s made. Most likely because he’s not used to it as a second in command. The only person he has to explain himself to is Satomi, everyone else has to dance to his tune. Same goes for being the lacrosse captain.

Someone’s probably got a major problem with authority figures.

“You brought the sheriff’s fucking son?” someone asks gesturing to Stiles before pointing towards a small group of girls on his right. “Lori brings the deputy’s sister, but you just had to go the extra mile, didn’t you?” Deputy’s sister? There aren’t many deputies with siblings their age. Most are way over twenty, and the younger deputies don’t have any siblings. Well, aside from Jordan but his brother probably still lives in England somewhere. Maybe he should ask Lydia if she can get him in contact with Danny. Jordan deserves to have a second chance. That's something to keep in mind for after their current predicament has been dealt with. 

Isaac scowls. “Stuff it, Richard.”

“The fuck are you even still standing here?” Brett asks crossing his arms over his chest. Problems with authority or not, he definitively knows how to get people’s attention even when they’re already used to him. Can you be used to him, though? _Really_ , used to him? “You were supposed to be inside, Dick, and prepare for the others.” The _others_. Now, that sounds like something marginally bigger than Stiles anticipated.

Richard places his hands on his hips. “Someone needs to get inside and open the gate.”

“And is there a reason you didn’t do that already?” Brett asks in a tone that couldn’t make it any clearer how much of an idiot he thinks this Richard guy is.

Stiles is inclined to agree with that sentiment. They’re all too ready to party in an abandoned warehouse which has put up ‘No Trespassing’ signs from here to Brisbane but the gate is closed, so they’re all staying around like little ducklings waiting for their mama duck to pave them the way? Fantastic. They do know that the risk doesn’t exactly decrease the longer they’re sitting ducks out here? Stiles knows the location. The night guards here are lazy as fuck because this place is so far away from the city, teenagers don’t usually come here to hang out. That doesn’t mean nobody ever patrols here. He does know, however, that they only check if the gate is closed. Either because they think their little compound is impenetrable or because they don’t want to do deal with the paperwork or even losing their job when someone broke into the warehouse without their knowledge. Truth be told, Stiles isn’t even sure _why_ there’s still security here. The warehouse has been empty for years.

Be that as it may. Stiles doesn’t have the patience to wait for them to rock-paper-scissor it out, so he nudges Isaac with his elbow. “Help me get over the gate.”

“What?” The werewolf turns to look at him, laughter yielding confusion.

“The gate,” Stiles repeats gesturing in its direction for emphasis, “get me over and I can open it from the other side.”

Isaac hesitates for a second, almost as if he’s not too ecstatic about Stiles being the one who technically breaks into the compound. It’s sweet, it really is, but he’s also the person having the biggest chance to get out of this mess without getting into too much trouble. Jordan, who is currently working, would never arrest him because of breaking and entering, and even his dad might turn a blind eye to Stiles’ acting up after what happened. He totally shouldn’t push it, he knows, but _once_? That's perfectly fine.

Stiles nudges him again. “ _Come on_.”

“Why does it always have to be you?”

“Why does it still surprise you?”

Isaac tips his head to the side with a sigh. “One day, it’s gonna bite you in the arse.”

“Today is not that day,” Stiles notes with a grin. It’s strange how quickly he adjusted to the whole normal teenager thing. Maybe it is hanging out with Brett, maybe it’s seeing everyone standing around ready to have fun, maybe it’s just the teenager in him Stiles has been pushing down and further down ever since he’s been at the party during which Heather was kidnapped and killed by the Darach. Whatever exactly freed this part of him, it _amazing_. This is amazing. He hasn’t been as excited for something normal as he’s right fucking now. And if he has to do something a little illegal, then so be it.

With yet another sigh, Isaac starts moving towards the gate. Ignoring Brett’s ‘where the hell do you think you’re going?’ Stiles slips neatly into the path the other boy creates with sheer height and potentially the respect – and or fear – stemming from his friendship with Beacon County’s one and only Golden Boy. Stiles doesn’t consider himself too good for using that to his advantage. Not even a little bit.

Isaac gets into a crouch, eyebrows raised with his lips twisted into a disapproving line. Shaking his head, he links his fingers together for a leg-up.

“You know where the panel is?” Brett asks crossing his arms with a raised brow.

Stiles places his foot on Isaac’s hands. “You think you’re the only one checking out abandoned buildings?”

Isaac fails spectacularly at biting back his laugh. Someone lets out a low whistle. Someone else laughs quietly. Generally, the moody atmosphere lightens a bit which is as relaxing as displeasing. Stiles _knows_ what that means, and he knows that it’s most definitively going to be a part of him even if he’s just a chimera. After all, the nogitsune is part of him. No matter how much it’ll piss him off, no matter how much he’ll hate everything about it, there’s nothing he can change. He can’t go back; he can’t turn back human again. This is his life now, so he’s going to make the best out of everything thrown at him.

Grabbing the gate with his left hand, Stiles nods. “Let’s do this.”

The warehouse door wasn’t even locked. Once through the gate, it was free reign. No cameras. No locks. No doors that could betray the light. Everything seems perfectly empty, and with the werewolves around, they have an early warning system in case one of the night guards _does_ end up dragging their ass over here – however they are managing that over the bass of the music - even though the risk of security checking the place is highly unlikely. This place screams secret teenage party hideout which serves as the occasional lover's lane as well. The used condom in the corner near the door is a dead giveaway. It has been replaced by a small table with an abundance of shots

“Mate, it’s not gonna bite you,” Isaac says for probably the eighties time in the last thirty minutes.

Stiles stares at the red cup in front of him. Well, it's not gonna bite him but apparently, he will notice a reaction right away; a burning on his tongue and down his throat. Both Brett and Isaac promised that it’s not even half as bad as it sounds. It’s just an indicator of the wolfsbane working until the healing has slowed down enough that the alcohol can’t be processed immediately any longer. No hangovers, no lasting consequences, just a bit of good old drunken fun. In theory that sounds like a lot of fun, right now it's hella terrifying. It doesn't matter how often people tell him that he's definitively not a nogitsune because it's simply improbable that he's possessed again. Their conviction is admirable, tho. Stiles would be ecstatic if he had half of it.

Looking around, he spots Brett speaking to Lori. Their expression doesn’t exactly give the impression of a happy conversation. Considering how protective Brett is, he might not be all too happy about his dear little sister joining a party like this and hangs out with mostly guys on top of it. They've all been there. Stiles couldn't even imagine how he'd react if he had a younger sister or brother who suddenly came to the same parties he was at. 

And decided to get drunk.

With a wave of his hand, Brett parts with the kind of words that cause Lori to throw her hands in the air then follows him pushing through the mass of dancing bodies. Having siblings looks stressful. 

With a frown, Stiles turns back around to study Isaac’s face. No matter how unimpressed he stares back at him, his fingers never cease to fiddle with the hem of his t-shirt. They both know what a positive test means. When Stiles grabs the cup, Isaac gnaws on his bottom lip, gaze following the bright red plastic. Stiles swallows heavily, returns his attention to the sloshing liquid. He clears his throat. “What if I imagine it?”

“The burn?” Isaac draws his eyebrows together, shakes his head once, thumbnail scratching invisible dirt on the dark fabric. "You won't."

Stiles tips the cup to the left. “You sure?” He should just get over with it. Drink the drink, face the music. He’s going to have one hell of a night either way – it’ll be just fun at a party or the last night before Satomi and Noshiko decide what to do with him; based on everybody’s experiences with the nogitsune, Stiles wouldn’t even be surprised if they end up running him through with a sword before Satomi bites him. Been there, not quite done that. But witnessing someone doing it to his slightly paler mirror image probably counts for something.

“Bloody hell, if you don’t drink it-“

“So, I’m the reasonable one now?”

Stiles almost drops his drink at the voice. “Are you kidding me?” Honestly, he shouldn’t be all that surprised. It’s not like expecting Theo to stay away from him is the rational thing to do. Because, apparently, he’s glued to his buttcheek. Hayden appears behind him. _The deputy’s sister_. Of fucking course. Why didn’t he think of her? She’s friends with Lori. It makes sense that she’s here. It makes even more sense that she’s called her exceptionally infuriating alpha to ruin the fun. That would also explain why Brett has been annoyed at his sister. Potentially. It's not like he knows. But if she heard Hayden call him and told Brett about it, his sudden sour mood definitively has a reason.

“You need a life, Toni.”

“Theo,” Stiles reminds him.

Isaac raises his brows. “ _Right_.”

“There you are, Titus.” Brett reappears without any warning putting three shots of something clear on the table in front of Stiles before placing his hands on his shoulders, fingers pressing against his collarbones with surprising emphasis.

Shifting around, Isaac bumps his knee against Stiles’ thigh and leans forward with a grin. Is displaying public affection and misremembering his name their newest plan to make Theo fly off the handle? They’re certainly on to something if the guy’s clenched jaw is any indication of his emotional state. It's impressive, really, seeing how much patience Theo used to demonstrate when he was still trying to play the good boy. “You wanna get him drunk?” Theo asks looking from Brett to Isaac as he juts a finger in Stiles’ general direction. His voice is just loud enough that he can hear him over the music. “When he’s not even in control?”

Brett shrugs, taps a finger against his collarbone to the beat of the music. “The plan is for him _not_ to get drunk.”

“So, you put something in his drink?”

“Since he’s a chimera, Travis,” Isaac says leaning forward enough that he can cross his arms over Stiles’ thigh, lips twisted into an amused smirk that’s a bit too reminiscent of Brett, “he’ll be jolly good and sober.”

“How do you kn-“

Brett cuts him off with a wave of his hand. “Your little friend stayed sober all Friday night long,” he explains nodding in Hayden’s direction, who widens her eyes in horror. Theo probably won't be the only one who's not particularly thrilled about Hayden hanging out with Brett. In fact, Stiles would bet his ass that Liam will throw a fit the second he hears about his girlfriend hanging out with his personal nemesis. “You’re too human for the wolfsbane to work, yet not human enough to get shitfaced. Sucks to be you,” he adds with more than a little schadenfreude dancing in his voice. Of _course_. There’s a pattern starting to form, and Stiles isn’t sure he likes it.

He isn’t quite sure of anything right now. All the confidence and motivation he’s gotten infiltrating this warehouse narrows down to peak anxiety as he stares into the cup. Out of all the things, a sip of alcohol decides how tomorrow’s going to go.

 _Fantastic_.

Alcohol almost ruined his dad’s life, and now it might save _his_. If that isn’t some fucking irony, Stiles really doesn’t know what is.

Theo scoffs. "We're all different. What works on me, might not work on him and vice versa."

"Well, it's true that all chimeras are immune to mountain ash, innit?" Isaac raises his brows. That's one surprisingly good point.

But Theo isn't convinced. _"He_ is different. Chimera or not, the Dread Doctors didn't create him. Our rules might not apply." That's another very good point - actually, that's an even better point. Having to agree with Theo still sucks. It's probably going to suck really bad for a long, long time. 

“Dude, can you get a move on?” Brett squeezes his shoulders. “I planned to have _fun_ tonight, instead you’re really pushing my guilty conscience about keeping shit from Satomi. _Again_.” 

“Okay, I didn’t ask you to-”

Brett knocks his knee into his back, sending a spark of pain up his spine. Motherfucking piece of shit. Werewolves and their proclivity to get their will via force. It’s so fucking rude. They really need to have a word about manners. “Stiles,” Brett warns, tightening his hold on him again, “take a fucking sip, or so help me-“

“Fine!” Stiles throws his free hand in the air, then tries to push the guy off his back to prevent further uncalled for attacks on him. “ _Fine_.” It’s just a precaution. It’s totally fine. There’s no need for him to assume the worst. He’s not possessed, he can’t be. He would’ve noticed something. His friends would’ve noticed something. They all know exactly what to look out for. Blackouts. Weird behaviour. More fights in their vicinity. So, no sweat. Everything’s peachy, right? _Right_.

Stiles glances at Theo out of the corner of his eye, who folds his arms over his chest and stares at the cup as if it personally offended him. His presence, strangely enough, calms him down a bit. If Theo is so sure that he's a chimera, it has to be true, right? The guy knows more shit about Stiles than he does himself. And while that's creepy, it is strangely reassuring. With the way Theo talks to him, about him, Stiles has the feeling that he makes some strange kind of sense - and that's so much more than he's gotten from other people. It scares him. In fact, it scares the shit out of him that Theo is the one person who makes him feel like that. Point three-thousand-four-hundred-eighty-six he has to work on after things have calmed down a bit. That list is gonna be impossible to finish before some supernatural occurrence ends up killing him. 

Fun times.

Licking his lips, Stiles looks from the cup back to Theo. "We're both someone's fucked up science-experiment." After raising his drink for a mock 'Cheers', he takes a sip. 


	19. interlude

Nothing. No burn – at least none that can’t be accounted to the alcohol itself – no weird tingles, no rash, no strange sensations. Just badly mixed vodka running down his throat and settling in the depth of his stomach that’s slowly unknotting. Because he’s not a real nogitsune. He’s just a chimera. Just a fucking chimera. He’d rather be entirely human but if he has the choice between being a real kitsune – nogitsune in his case – and being a chimera, he’ll gladly choose the latter options. Not only because of all the advantages it brings with it. Better healing, supernatural speed, magic and no weaknesses to mountain ash and wolfsbane. There has to be a strand that works on chimeras as well. There _has_ to be. But being a chimera, at the very least, gives him a shot at pretending to be human. 

He draws his eyebrows together and puts the drink down.

“Your face tells me I might have to kill you,” Isaac notes with a scowl and nudges his leg with his knee.

Stiles shakes his head. “Nothing.”

His face lights up as if someone flipped a switch. “Nothing?”

“ _Nothing_.”

Isaac throws his hands in the air. The bench shakes slightly under the rapid movement, and for a split-second, Stiles worries that Isaac might hug him before he realises that that’s not at all in the realms of their relationship.

Brett whistles appreciatively. “Great,” he says, sounding more amused than relieved and he squeezes his shoulders gently. “Now we have someone who can look out for us when we’re drinking.”

“I’m not here voluntarily- what makes you think I wanna join you again?” Stiles asks leaning his head back until he can look at the smuggest grin he’s ever seen. Well, at least on a person that isn’t Theo. It’s hard to believe anyone possesses _that_ level of smug, and while Brett is close, he’s not as close Stiles thought he could be. Theo struts around with a kind of arrogance that’s immeasurable, although Stiles is pretty sure at least half of it is nothing more than a farce.

With a chuckle, Brett leans forward, forcing Stiles to duck down, and presses one of the shots into his hands. “Trust me. You will.” He places one into Isaac’s hands, then takes the other for himself and turns to look at Theo. “He’s fine, you can go home now.”

Theo stares at him. Without batting an eye, he takes the drink Stiles set down, corner of his mouth twitching into the smallest of smirks. He’s not going to leave. He’s going to stay, and he’s going to be a pain in the ass about it. “No,” Theo replies after a pause, eyes now focused on Stiles in a way that makes him feel like they’re the only people in the warehouse, “this sounds like the perfect opportunity for pack bonding, don’t you think?” A wonderful idea. Such greatness. How about he shoves him from the roof of a building next time he has the chance? _That's_ a perfect opportunity too. Theo smirks as if he knows exactly what’s going through his mind. Without waiting for an answer, he turns to Hayden. “Call the others.”

Brett squeezes his shoulder once more, then raises his glass for a toast. “To a night of _fun._ ”

The warehouse’s restrooms are in questionable quality, not that that’s a particularly surprising occurrence, but he’d still rather piss outside than get anywhere near the toilet seats. Good thing he’s born a guy. Shuddering, he wipes his wet hands on his clothes – Brett could’ve at the very least warned him, so he would’ve had the chance to wear something different than slacks and a plaid shirt. _Well_ \- Stiles massages his temple and glares at the too-bright fluorescent light overhead. It has the same too white brightness as the ones in the Yukimura’s basement.

Letting out a breath, he rolls his shoulders and pulls out his phone. Five messages are sitting in his inbox. Four from Lydia, one from Liam. Whatever _he_ wants. He also has four calls from Scott. Furrowing his brows, he stares down at his phone, then ignores the calls and opens Lydia’s messages first.

_> > Hey, what did he want?_

_> > Please, tell me your silence means you’re having sex._

_> > Or are about to have sex._

_> > Call me. Love you. Have fun!_

Stiles can’t help but smile. She really wants him to have a normal teenager experience with everything she believes should be part of it. He taps in the box for a reply.

_I’m at a party. Tell you everything when you’re back. <<_

_Love you too. <<_

He doubts she’ll just let that response fly but switches to Liam’s message anyway. Although he couldn’t really imagine what he might want from him, Stiles isn’t particularly surprised that the party made its way from teenager to teenager. The lack of text is mildly disconcerting. Instead it’s just a picture of Stiles stepping onto Isaac’s hands, Brett’s back and Hayden standing next to Lori. He can only see her profile, but her face is clear as day. That’s the moment she must’ve called Theo because there’s a phone pressed to her ear and she looks slightly distressed.

Rolling his eyes, Stiles answers with his location.

_You should come too. We earned it. <<_

The arrows turn blue instantly. Looks like someone’s been waiting for his reply. However, Liam doesn’t answer immediately. He’s either not sure what to say, discussing a possible response with Mason or trying to look less like he’s been sitting on his phone for the past forty-seven minutes.

_> > On our way!!!_

Yeah, definitively Mason. Snorting out a laugh, Stiles pushes his phone back into the pocket of his pants and runs his hands over his face again. Despite being relieved that he’s not a real nogitsune, he’s strangely bummed out over the fact that alcohol’s never going to do anything to him _ever_. It’s not that he enjoys alcohol that much but sometimes he just wants to let go, to be a teenager without any particular responsibilities. Especially after all the other things the supernatural has done or taken from him. From his friends to his sanity. It gave him nightmares and took away a chance to drown his demons. Well, it’s not that drinking himself silly is an option he’d ever chose, not after seeing what it did to his dad, but _it is_ an option, and someone snatched it from right under his nose.

Fuck the supernatural

Leaving Beacon Hills, going to college, it has always been some sort of light at the end of the long, dark and gloomy tunnel he’s currently walking through. That changed. Now he can’t even outrun the supernatural any longer. This is a moment where a drink would be fine. Or a joint. Man, he didn’t have a joint in a long time. Will his meds still work? Does he even need them anyway? Stiles gets the strange feeling that there are going to be more than one Q&A with Satomi and Noshiko in his near future. He’d prefer talking to Brett, but Stiles doubts he’ll be ecstatic about playing teacher all over again.

He pulls his phone out again, not quite ready to go back to the music and laughter and flashing lights. Or Theo and his pack constantly observing him. He can feel their gazes, even when he’s in the middle of the dancefloor. He can feel their eyes burrowing into the back of his head even when Brett or Isaac shield him from their view. Lydia has already texted back, as expected, she’s not about to leave it at that.

_> > This better ends with you hooking up with someone._

Stiles snorts out another laugh. Is he that predictable?

_It might end with me going to jail. <<_

He attaches the picture Liam sent him for good measure and pushes the phone back into his pocket again. Pursing his lips, he contemplates calling Scott for a second. Maybe it’s important. Maybe something has happened. But if something happened, Jordan would’ve called him. His dad is fine too. After Donovan popped up at the hospital, the deputies are checking in constantly. One night off. _One night_. This town isn’t going to go to shit just because he takes a single night off.

The door opens to a guy muttering to himself. He doesn’t even seem to notice Stiles and falls into a stall. _Okay_ , that means it’s time for him to leave. He half runs, half sneaks out of the door, not prepared to hear someone vomit – the thought alone makes panic crawl up his spine – and he finds himself dashing down the cold and empty hallway leading to the restrooms until the music covers every other sound. His heart pounds – not because of the exercise – and he’s searching the warehouse for a familiar face. He finds Isaac’s floppy curls in the middle of the dancefloor, a place Stiles really isn’t in the mood to be right now, and Brett chatting up a pretty girl in a corner.

 _Great_.

Stiles can’t wait for Liam and Mason to arrive.

His gaze drags through the warehouse and lands on the corner they've put the booze in. Drink. That’s fine too. He just needs something that distracts him from the guy potentially vomiting. That’s some shit he really cannot deal with. Stiles pushes past a group animatedly talking to each other, ducks underneath one of the Devenford’s defender’s massive arms – which he most definitely doesn’t crash into thanks to supernatural senses – and avoids the green-haired dude and his equally green-haired girlfriend who’ve tried to chat him up four times already trying to advertise a threesome. Neither of them seems to understand the word ‘no’.

He snatches a red cup, eyes the bottles more or less lined up on a long folding table that’s dusty enough to must've belonged to the warehouse and contemplates his options. Since nothing is working, he’ll have to base his choices on what tastes the best and not what hits the hardest. He’s never tried ninety percent of the stuff standing there; especially not that brown shit. He doesn't trust brown alcohol. Bad shit it reminds him off. 

“Nice stunt with the gate.”

Stiles jolts and drops the cup. “ _Fucking_ hell.”

“Sorry.” The dude laughs. He looks familiar enough, probably someone that ran him over during a lacrosse game and offers him a new red cup. “So, you’re one of Brett’s _friends_?”

Something about the way he phrased that doesn’t sit right with him. “Friends?” Stiles asks grabbing the first bottle within reach – no label, clear liquid, hopefully vodka – and fills a bit into his cup.

The guy offers him a bottle of some cheap energy drink. “He doesn’t usually get cosy with someone from your school, much less someone from the Cyclones.” _Yeah_ , definitely a member of Devenford Prep’s lacrosse team. “So, I assume he wants to fuck you.”

Stiles almost chokes on his own spit and sends energy drink splashing over his fingers and the table as he coughs. That’s very straightforward and not what he expected to hear at all. To be honest, he wouldn’t be the first one being a bit antagonistic towards him because of this stupid rivalry going on between their schools. It has been there since Stiles set foot into Beacon Hills High for the first time and it will be there as long as both schools exist in the same city _and_ have lacrosse teams. He might not get as much shit as he expected, and it probably would be significantly more if he were a frequent player instead of a bench warmer but it’s annoying regardless.

“Oh,” the guy laughs patting his back with a bit too much force, “you didn’t know.”

“No,” Stiles says hastily. That’s not even the point. Not that it wouldn’t be totally surprising if Brett wanted to sleep with him. Because they’re not even playing in the same league. That girl he’s trying to hook up with is stunning. He’s so far away from being on Brett’s radar- well, it doesn’t matter. It’s still not the fucking point. He clears his throat and shifts his feet into a better stance, so he doesn’t bang his hipbone against the table. “We’re just having a friend in common.”

The rough treatment stops. “Oh, that Isaac dude?”

Stiles nods rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah.” This is by far one of the strangest conversations he’s had in a long time – and he’s talked about some weird shit in the past few months alone.

“Huh.” The dude fumbles for something in his jacket. “Brett doesn’t really have friends, is the thing.” Why the _fuck_ is he telling him that? Does Stiles look like he’s interested _or_ the right person to talk to about that? “He has his sister, his fans and the people he fucks. Pretty sure-“

“You don’t know shit about him,” Stiles says turning around to look him in the eye.

The guy shrugs but his face falls a little, almost as if he’s disappointed. “You’re right. I don’t. But that’s not my fault.” With a quirked brow, he flicks a small bag in Stiles’ direction and leaves tossing, “have fun!” over his shoulder like an afterthought. What the _fuck_ is up with that guy? The whole conversation doesn’t make sense from start to finish. Why did he even come to talk to him in the first place? If he expected Stiles to be just someone else Brett has fun with for a night, then he’s the last person who’d be able to give him any details about the guy.

Stiles studies the tiny bag in his hand. Three pills sit inside. He can’t help but bark out a laugh. The guy seriously tossed him a party drug. _The sheriff’s son_. That dude has some balls. Stiles puts the cup down and leans against the table. Someone else is bustling around near the shots but he doesn’t pay them any mind. Instead he lets one of the bright pink pills drop into the palm of his hand and rolls it around with his thumb, contemplating it. If alcohol doesn’t work, he doubts drugs will do anything to him. But he’s curious. He never tried drugs to begin with – other than weed anyway – and the dose is much higher. Maybe, just _maybe_ -

A hand closes around his wrist. “Not worth it.”

His eyes jump from the fingers to Theo’s face. “How do you know?”

“Tried it.” Theo shifts his grip and turns his hand until the little pink pill drops onto the dirty floor. It instantly starts dissolving in a small puddle of what’s either alcohol or the energy drink he’s spilled moments ago. “It doesn’t do anything to us.” _Us_. The word sets his teeth on edge even though Theo isn’t implying what Stiles’ stupid brain thinks he does.

He yanks his hand back, but Theo doesn’t let go, steps closer instead. “I’m not like you,” Stiles snaps straightening so he has some height on him. It doesn’t do much; neither to their imbalance in strength nor to Theo’s giant ego. “I’m more like Brett and Isaac then I’ll ever be like you.”

Theo’s shoulders move in a silent chuckle. He tilts his head down as if to hide the amusement on his features. “Whatever gets you through the day.” He studies something on the floor for a few seconds, perhaps waiting for Stiles to reply, before his eyes dart back up and lock with his. “There are other options for some of us. Human drugs won’t cut it. You need something else.” He leans closer or maybe Stiles does, it’s hard to tell. “Something better.” Only when he licks his lips Stiles notices that he’s been staring at Theo’s mouth forming every single word instead of looking him in the eye.

“What is it?” His voice is low, breathless almost, and wouldn’t be heard over the dubstep and background noises if Theo didn’t have supernatural healing.

Theo steps closer. Their chests are inches away from touching, but there’s no way out, even less when Theo finally lets go of his wrist and places his hands against the table, successfully caging Stiles in. “I can show you.”

Alarm bells sound off in the back of Stiles’ mind, dampened by his curiosity. He knows he shouldn’t fall for it. He knows, he shouldn’t even be interested in it – but he’s always been the guy who ran into a supernatural showdown with nothing but a baseball bat. Why would it change now that he has supernatural healing? “Then show me.” Because he needs to know. Because his mind won’t shut up until he does.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Theo asks stepping back just enough to make room for his raised hands. He moves his right out of view of anybody who might chance a glance in their direction, and his claws come free.

“What the-“

“ _Pain_ , Stiles,” Theo breathes, eyes glinting with excitement as he presses his index finger against his forearm. A drop of blood comes free underneath his claw, runs down his arm leaving behind a bright red line. The tang of something sweet fills the air. Short but noticeable, and Stiles covers his nose. No. No, _no_. The edge of the table meets the small of his back, and he grinds his teeth. Theo puts his hand back on the table, cages him in once again. “You know, you want it-“

Stiles wraps his fingers around the table, too afraid to touch any part of Theo’s body. “Let me go.”

“You’ll need it-"

“Do not touch me.”

Theo steps closer. Stiles can feel the heat of his body, can feel his breath filing over his neck. His heart jumps into his throat. He can’t- this isn’t going to happen right now. “I can give it to you,” Theo whispers raising a hand. “I will-“

A shadow falls over them both. Brett’s jaw twitches, a second later, he hurls Theo away from him without batting an eye. “Paws off, buddy.”

A stray bottle almost causes Theo to lose his balance. He grabs an empty table to steady himself, eyes flashing yellow for the flicker of a second. It’s impressive how easily Brett makes Theo to fly off the handle. Stiles has treated him much worse, and Theo manages to keep his composure around him. He shakes his head, squeezes his eyes shut and when he opens them again, they’re back to normal but not any less venomous. “This is none of your business.”

“It’s gonna be mine if he’s losing his shit because he’s high on pain when he’s not in control,” Brett snaps grabbing Stiles by his upper arm. 

Theo scoffs. “But alcohol is fine?”

“You think one sip would’ve gotten him drunk?” Brett asks advancing on Theo who, despite their impressive height difference, doesn’t back down. The guy _never_ knows when it’s time to take a step back and take a deep breath.

Stiles tugs on his arm. Brett only tightens his grip. _For fuck's sake_ , what is it with people and yanking him around by his upper arm? He can walk on his own. He usually prefers to walk around by himself and out of free will. This is something he has to communicate better once the situation calmed down enough. The last thing they need right now is Theo and Brett going for each other’s throats. Because Theo, for sure, has an axe to grind with the werewolf, and Theo doesn’t know when to stop. He’d find a way to get back at Brett in no time if they let him.

“You’re staying with me now,” Brett says briefly glancing over his shoulder, so Stiles know those words are addressed at him and him only. “If you leave my sight, I’ll rat you out to your hellhound.”

Liam hasn’t touched any of the drinks yet, most definitely not trusting either Brett or Isaac, whereas Mason looks as if he’s equally having the time of his life and being bummed out by nothing in particular. His attention is constantly swivelling around between Brett and his teammates as well as Corey lurking with the rest of his pack in the near vicinity. This means Theo hangs around just as much, and his presence sits heavy on his back. Stiles can feel his eyes, his attention, an intensity burrow into him like a set of claws. It’s so much worse than Liam’s glare whenever Stiles talks to Brett, who, incidentally, just now seems to realise that his drink is empty.

“Move it.”

“Dude,” Stiles says exasperatedly throwing his hands in the air, “I’m with Liam and Isaac.”

Brett’s not having any of it. “Move. _It_.”

“Mate, leave him.” Isaac crosses his arms over his thighs.

Mason watches the following silent exchange between them with growing excitement. Then again, Mason watches everything that’s even remotely connected to the supernatural with excitement. Brett could also be a reason. While Stiles doubts Mason has actual feelings for him, some kind of crush definitively is involved. Seeing the toll Hayden’s loyalty to Theo takes on Liam and her relationship, it’s not unlikely that Mason ignores whatever feelings he might have had for Corey and instead channel them onto the next best person.

Stiles knows that feeling all too well. If he squints really hard, the three of them technically sit in the same boat. Just that Stiles doesn’t have feelings for Theo as much as he’s unwillingly attracted to him. His body has always been a fucking traitor. Thankfully, he’s got his heart still under control.

“If that fun-sized wannabe werewolf even thinks about getting close-“

Isaac rolls his eyes. “I’ll manage.”

“I saw that last time.”

“Low blow,” Isaac draws picking up his red, half-empty cup. “Now, I know not to underestimate him.”

Stiles choses that exact moment to glance in Theo’s direction. He, Josh, Tracy, Hayden, and Corey have settled onto an assembly of old wooden boxes close to where they’re sitting. While Josh and Hayden look at the very least partially enthusiastic about being at a party, Corey doesn’t stop fiddling with the hem of his shirt, Tracy couldn’t possibly be more annoyed if she tried, and Theo, well, Theo’s already looking back at him, an eyebrow quirked and a smirk in place that would feel even better if it was greeted with a fist. There’s something about the guy that makes violence a wonderful first option.

Brett clears his throat and Stiles spins around. “Huh?”

“Don’t make me spell it out.”

Stiles grimaces and collapses onto the free place next to Isaac who, for some weird reason, ruffles his hair like he’s some kind of twelve-year-old boy being sent to the bench after a temper tantrum. Brett shoots him one last warning glance before he’s on his way to get a new drink. One that’s not spiked. Stiles noticed quickly that Isaac and he avoided the bottles marked with an inconspicuous X. He doesn’t need them to, and he certainly doesn’t want them to either. This was supposed to be a fun evening for everyone involved.

With a scowl, he snatches Isaac’s drink and takes a sip.

“What’s so bad about Theo interacting with Stiles?” Mason asks looking in the direction Brett vanished in.

Liam scowls. “Other than it being Theo?”

“He tried to get him hooked on pain,” Isaac says leaning against the large wooden box serving as a questionably comfortable backrest.

Mason tilts his head this way and that, then turns to look at them. “And that’s bad?” Sometimes Stiles has a hard time figuring out if Mason asks all these questions because he wants to be certain about every piece of new information he gathers or because he doesn't understand the supernatural quite as much as he wishes. This childlike innocence with which he approaches the subjects makes it impossible to judge. Stiles probably looked very similar in the early days of dealing with everything, although his first instinct was always to figure out what it is, how to find and get rid of it. The rest, he could work on later.

“A nogitsune chasing a high is never a good thing,” Isaac replies after a pause. “And since we don’t know yet whether Stiles needs it, we reckon it’s best for him to stay away.”

Stiles frowns and takes another sip of the drink. For a second, he glances at Isaac who keeps his focus on nothing in particular right in front of him. Even though neither of them wants to even talk about the nogitsune because of the memories it drags back up, Isaac seems to be ten steps ahead of him thanks to Satomi. Her pack is so much more organised. They sort shit out even before it becomes a problem. Stiles appreciates that modus operandi much more than dealing with shit only after it became inconvenient. Brett and Lori have enough time on their hands to go to a party despite the looming threat on the horizon. It’s either impressive or ignorant. Stiles isn’t too sure on that either, but he totally appreciates their help.

“Have you been there when-“

“Yes,” Isaac cuts in sharply and Mason snaps his mouth shut.

Stiles nudges his leg then catches the eye of the dude who gave him the party drug. He nods at him with a grin, then turns around and mixes with the dancing crowd. What a weird guy. Something’s off about him. Or maybe not. Maybe he’s really just a guy on a party who still believes that story he made up for himself. Stiles desperately needs to get a handle on his paranoia. Not everyone approaching him tries to kill his friends.

“Hey-" Mason waves his hand in their general direction. “Hey, _hey_.”

Isaac takes a deep breath. “ _What_?”

“Who’s that girl Brett’s arguing with?”

Muttering under his breath, Isaac grabs Stiles' arm and drags him to his feet. “Nothing against your mate, but I need a drink.”

Stiles snorts out a laugh and follows Isaac not without looking over his shoulder once more to find Theo still watching him. 


	20. power and control

“Fucking hell. This girl.”

Isaac rolls his eyes. “The tragedy of being rich, hot and famous.” 

With amusement, Stiles watches Brett’s exasperation yield confusion. He draws his eyebrows together, opens his mouth for a reply then closes it again. The moment he realises that Isaac mocked him couldn’t be any more obvious. His lips curl into a tight line, and he juts out his chin in the air with a scoff. The guy is lucky he’s hot. Then again, if he weren’t his attitude wouldn’t be as bad. Probably. There’s never a hundred percent guarantee for that. “I hear jealousy,” Brett says, not without indignation, ignoring Isaac’s prolonged  _ ‘pfff _ ’ and turns to Stiles instead. “So, what’s going on with you and that nasty little runt?” 

“Sorry?” Stiles asks in an embarrassingly shrill voice. He can’t believe Brett’s mentioning it  _ right now _ with Liam and Mason within earshot. 

As expected, the latter immediately picks up on it. “What nasty little runt?” 

Brett ignores him. “You think they’re hot.” Oh, that’s- well, actually, that’s giving him a bit more time before everyone inevitably figures out about his dick not getting the hint that Stiles tries to hate Theo; because that’s really hard to do when his own body works against him. Fucking traitor. 

“Who’s hot?” Liam asks looking at Stiles owlishly. It is not the time and place for this conversation. Too many eyes and ears. He doesn’t need the Scooby gang to pick up on his misplaced attraction to Theo. He especially doesn’t need Malia to hear about it or, even worse, Theo to connect any dots that are not his to connect. The last thing he needs is for that blasé chimera to have even more fuel for his already blazing arrogance. 

Stiles scowls, forcing every muscle in his body to keep staring at Brett instead of turning to glance at Theo. Which he kind of really wants to do  _ just _ to see if he’s looking back at him. He bangs his heels against the large wooden box he’s sitting on and folds his arms because acting like a moping six-year-old is certainly going to get him out of this one.

“Come on,” Brett says smiling and batting his lashes in an overly dramatic fashion, “you can tell me.” 

Isaac pokes his head over his friend’s shoulder with a grin. “You can tell  _ us _ .” 

“Oh,  _ shut up, _ ” Stiles snaps unable to stop his cheeks from flushing. All he can hope for is that, maybe, he’s lucky enough and the bad lightning here hides the fact that he blushes like a middle schooler receiving a compliment from their crush. This is  _ awful _ . 

Mason leans over to Liam and whispers, loud enough for everyone to hear, “what is happening?” 

Brett leans closer. “Or do you  _ like _ him?” 

“What?  _ No _ !” There is nothing to like. Theo is an asshole. A terrible person. Especially to Stiles' friends. 

“So, you just wanna shag that muppet,” Isaac states quirking his head to the side with a raised brow and a grin Stiles starts to hate the longer he has to stare at it; and he’s still not sure what happened in the first place. How did this conversation go so wrong? How did it even venture in this very direction in the first place? It doesn’t make any  _ sense _ . 

Glaring at Isaac, Stiles shrugs. “No.”

Brett snorts out a laugh and places his hands next to his thighs. The sense of Deja-vu is more than uncanny. He stiffens slightly as Brett leans down, presses his lips against the shell of his ear and whispers, “he wants to. I can smell it on him every time he’s near you.” Can he smell it on him too? Does he know? “You’re... harder to read.” Brett pulls back until they’re face to face again, and he scrutinises him closely. “Your chemosignals are all over the place.”

“Eau de anxiety,” Stiles says opting for a joke hoping that Brett decides that this situation isn’t interesting enough and drops it. “Great for keeping supernatural noses-" he pushes the werewolf away from him, who budges barking out another laugh “- out of my goddamn business.” His gaze darts in Theo’s direction on instinct, as if part of his body needs to know where he is at all times – he’s watching, he always is, but he’s not looking at Stiles – before it snaps back to Brett and Isaac. 

The latter props his elbow on his friend’s shoulder. “The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak.”

Stiles covers his face with his hands. “I’ve created a monster.” 

“Don’t be so dramatic.” Brett snaps his fingers in the near vicinity of his face and doesn’t stop until Stiles looks at him. One would think he has a problem with losing people’s attention. “What you gonna do about it?”

“ _ What _ ?”

“What. Are. You. Going. To. Do. About. That?” Brett repeats with an amused chuckle. If he keeps that up his face will trigger an unpleasant reaction Stiles cannot be faulted for.

“Nothing?” 

“Oh come  _ on _ ,” Brett says with a roll of his eyes, “if you bottle shit like that up, it’s gonna go-“ They both mimic an explosion with their hands mouthing  _ boom. _ Dealing with five-year-olds must be just as exciting. Another reason why he'd never work as a kindergarten teacher. Who has the energy to stomach this amount of idiocy day in day out? Especially on top of all the supernatural shenanigans going on - and they're not just childish, they're also assholes. That's not a promising combination. Why did he allow these two to be introduced?  _ Why _ ?

Isaac props his arm on Brett’s shoulder again. “You could go for it.” 

“No,” Stiles says raising both his arms, barely suppressing waving his hands around in a fit of panic. “No. I cannot.” Is he insane? He sounds like Lydia. They are both completely fucking bonkers. Theo made clear what he wants from him - power and survival. Nothing else. And besides, there’s hooking up with a jerk, and then there’s hooking up with a guy who almost ruined his life and killed his- killed Scott. That’s a line he’s drawn, and a line he will never  _ ever  _ cross. It’s that simple. Even if Theo were the last person on planet earth, he would not- just no. A very big, fat no. Not gonna happen. Terrible idea. 

Mason clears his throat. “Who are you guys talking about?” 

Nobody responds. Instead, Brett looks past Isaac’s head and the following grin makes Stiles’ stomach somersault - not in a good, yet not in the worst way ever. It’s as if his stomach isn’t very sure how to feel about that expression. Which is quite fitting because Stiles doesn’t know either. At least something they can agree on. His head and his stomach hardly agree on anything.

“Dance with me.” 

“ _ What _ ?”

Brett offers him his hand ignoring Liam and Mason’s aghast reactions as well as Isaac rolling his eyes muttering to himself. “Dance with me,” he repeats easily beckoning him closer with his index and middle finger. “Come on, it won’t kill ya.” 

Grabbing his drink, Isaac says, “you haven’t seen him dance yet.”

“Anything’s better than him sitting in a corner longingly staring around the room,” Brett retorts with a roll of his eye. 

Stiles scowls.  _ Longing my ass _ . He isn't longingly staring at anybody. Brett's imagining things - and why does he even care? Can't he just have fun and let him wallow in his own misplaced attraction? Things would be so much less embarrassing. Stiles has no idea how he manages to somehow adopt the assholes of the nation in his social circle. The signals he's sending need a lot of refining. 

"I'm fine," he says after a pause scrunching up his face. Not that dancing necessarily means anything other than, well,  _ dancing  _ but- he really doesn't know if it's wise to go along with it regardless of what type of dancing Brett is considering. Liam is already in a bad mood because Hayden didn't tell him that she's at a party with Lori and then called her pack, not even thinking about him. Being too friendly with Brett is only going to egg him on more. And pissing Theo off in a warehouse full of people probably isn't- Stiles' thoughts come to a screeching halt. What the  _ hell  _ is he thinking? Why should he be arsed about other people's opinions? Since  _ when  _ is he worried about what other people think? And besides, Liam just has to get over the fact that he'll see Brett around more often from now on. They're on the same team. As for Theo, why in God's name would he be pissed? As long as Brett isn't antagonising him, things will be fine. 

Fucking hell, he desperately needs to get out of his head more. Gone are the times he does things  _ just because _ . When did he stop? When became his life this dance to avoid stepping on anybody's feelings? 

Pushing himself off the box, Stiles takes Brett's hand, who, for a brief second, looks utterly surprised, by either how easy Stiles changed his mind or that he even agreed in the first place, before he moves him seamlessly in front of him, curls his fingers around Stiles’ shoulders and leads him towards the dancefloor. Despite himself, Stiles cranes his neck and looks back in Theo’s direction - only to see if there is a reaction. There won’t be one. There can’t be one. But when his gaze flicks from Isaac to Theo, he’s confronted with lips pressed into a thin line and narrowed eyes. If Stiles didn’t know any better, he’d say Theo flashed his eyes yellow the second they look at each other. It might be nothing but the light because, in the blink of an eye, Theo’s mouth curls into an almost condescending smirk and he raises his nose before turning away with cold blue eyes.

Brett wraps an arm around his shoulder with an ease that’s equally calming and nerve-wracking. They're just dancing. Friends can dance. Acquaintances can dance too. There's nothing to it. Nobody is going to think anything about it but him. Brett is known to dance with people-  _ wait _ , no. Everybody is going to think exactly what he doesn't want them to think. Okay. Terrible idea. Terrible.

Without further ado, Brett turns him, his arm still around his shoulders and pulls him close. He leans down again, eyes directed somewhere else. “Relax,” he says, loosening his grip enough that it’s noticeably easy to slip away from him, “you act like I’m forcing you to do something you don’t want to.” Which is true and not true. Yes, he is acting like Brett is forcing him to do something he doesn’t want to do. But Stiles is here because he wants to be. He chose to be. 

“Uh-” he rolls his shoulders in an attempt to relax “- I don’t do this.” Laughing awkwardly, he makes a dismissive gesture. 

Brett looks at him with a quirked brow. “Dance?”

“No, I mean yeah-” Stiles laughs again, straightens a bit so he doesn’t look like an insecure little child next to Brett any longer. “I dance. Used to dance. Not like this, though.” He shouldn’t feel this awkward; he really shouldn’t. But he can’t help himself. Despite having had a girlfriend, despite Caitlyn and Heather clearly showing interest in him, he’s still so far out of his element when it comes to the mundane concept of flirting or dancing with someone or having fun like Lydia always tells him to do. She’d probably consider this fun. 

“Like this?” Brett asks pulling him just close enough that their bodies almost touch.

Stiles swallows around a sudden lump in his throat. He knows it’s childish. This doesn’t mean anything. Not for him. Not for Brett. The latter mostly does it to annoy Theo even further or to prove a point or  _ something _ . It doesn’t matter. Fun. Dancing is fun. He used to love to dance before he thought lacrosse was cooler because Jackson played lacrosse and Lydia was in love with Jackson. 

Licking his lips, Stiles nods. “Yeah.” His gaze flicks down, following his own hand as he places it on Brett’s waist. He feels the amused chuckle more than he hears it and meets the other boy’s eyes again before he raises onto the balls of his feet to press his lips against Brett’s ear. “I guess you need to teach me.” For a second, he catches Theo walking along the edge of the dancefloor. For a second, he could’ve sworn, he was watching him, watching them. Why would he? 

“I guess I have to,” Brett agrees, curling his fingers around his chin to move his head back, then placed his other at the small of his back. They’re much closer than Stiles anticipated they might be tonight. The whole concept of dancing together like this is a lot easier as well. It’s not too much skill involved when the space is limited and all he has to watch out for is that their knees don’t constantly knock together. They still need a moment to fall in sync with each other and the beat - a feat that becomes increasingly awkward with Brett holding his chin like he’s waiting for something. And maybe he did because, after a moment, he leans down again. “You gotta figure out what you want,” he says barely loud enough that Stiles can catch his words over the music. “You can make him jealous-” he takes a breath, fingertips pressing into the small of his back, lips brushing over the shell of his ear in a way that’s impossible to read wrong, even for him “- or I can help you forget him.” 

Stiles swallows again. Everything is right within his grasp. He can say yes and have the kind of fun everyone wants him to have, he can forget the shit that’s piling up around him, he can flush Theo out of his system. Or he says no and nothing would change. Or he asks Brett to make Theo-

Isaac appears right behind Brett, grabs his arm and whips him around. “You have to come with me,” he yells beckoning him over. “ _ Now _ .”

_ “ _ Why?” 

Leaning closer, Isaac explains whatever is going on gesturing dismissively. He’s also clearly avoiding Stiles’ eye because whenever he tries to make eye-contact, Isaac shifts his head just enough that he’s looking somewhere else. It could be a coincidence but even when he’s done talking, Isaac turns around almost immediately, expecting Brett to follow him.

Stiles furrows his brows. "What's happening?” Did something happen? Is it about Theo? Did he do something? Or did Liam and he end up in a fight because of Hayden? Oh please, please no. The last thing they need is even more trouble with this stupid chimera. 

“Just stay here.” Brett pulls his arm away and points back the way they came. “Relax. Have fun.” 

“But-” 

“ _ Stiles _ -” Brett pats his head. "Don't look so constipated. Live a little." Smirking, he winks at him before pushing into the crowd at his back. What the actual fuck? He doesn’t want to stay alone on the dancefloor like an idiot. And he doesn't look constipated. Pursing his lips, he gets on the balls of his feet trying to catch a glimpse of what’s so important that he leaves. Because, honestly, this is kind of awkward. 

An elbow connects uncomfortably with his spine, and Stiles grinds his teeth, looks around for the perpetrator or at the very least a place with more space. It’s not like Brett won’t find him. He’s a werewolf. And tall. Is that a Devenford Prep thing? Everyone here is taller than Stiles. Well, not everyone but quite a bunch of people. This is so weird, and he’s not about to stay around all dressed up and with nowhere to go. He could get a drink. It’s not exactly crowded over there. That would be-

Something catches his eye. A brown jacket. Black hair. What the- Stiles cranes his neck, heart jumping into his throat. No.  _ No.  _ That can't be. Right? Donovan isn't here. Why would he be? There's no way- except. The picture. Liam has it. Who sent it to Liam? And who the fuck took it in the first place? What kind of idiot goes around thinking it’s a great idea to take a picture of someone breaking into a warehouse. Shit.  _ Shit _ . Maybe it is Donovan. Should he check? He totally should. Unless Donovan doesn't know he's here. Or maybe it wasn't even Donovan. He'll look like a complete maniac if he freaks out just because there's a guy with black hair wearing a brown jacket.

_ Okay _ . He takes a deep breath, squinting against the light for a second before he pushes past moving bodies. Getting onto the dancefloor was so much easier. People simply part their way for the Golden Boy. That or he severely lacks the skill of finding a good path to follow. He bumps into a couple making out, apologises and quickly ducks in another direction - at this point, he has no clue where he's getting out - and makes it past a dancing group a bit closer to the edge of the dancefloor when Theo cuts his way off. 

" _ Fucking _ hell," he breathes taking a step back and promptly bumping into somebody else.

Theo quirks his brows. The omnipresent smirk keeps its residence on his lips. For a while, he just looks at him, lights flashing over his features as if he's stepped out of a storm and straight in Stiles' life. Theo moves closer, and Stiles’ breath catches in his throat. He can’t tell if it’s panic or- or something else. His heart tries hard to outspeed the beat of the music. Theo’s shoulders move in an inaudible chuckle. “He left you.”

Glancing around, Stiles rubs his arm. “Something came up,” he replies reminding himself to keep the distance between them as big as he can - which is almost impossible with the dancing crowd constantly shifting all around them. 

“Something more important than you?” Theo asks, briefly glancing over his shoulder as someone bumps into him. Then he focuses his attention back on Stiles and diminishes the rest of the distance separating them. “Hard to imagine.” His lips part, straight white teeth showing up for a short laugh and he tilts his head down, looking almost innocent in his movements. 

Swallowing heavily around the lump in his throat, Stiles watches as the smile falls from Theo’s lips ever so slowly. His shoulders slump and his eyes dart back up before he reaches for his hand. 

Stiles flinches away, knocking his elbow into the person next to him. There's a complaint but he doesn't catch it and he doesn't apologise either.

Theo reaches for him again, fingers finding his upper arm. He pulls him closer, and Stiles lets him or maybe he doesn’t as much let him as he tolerates it. There’s no way out anyway. None at all. There are too many people in his way. “I’m sorry,” Theo says barely loud enough for him to hear. “I shouldn’t have jumped you like that.” His arm slips around his waist, free hand finding its place on the small of his back. 

This is bad. It’s good, it feels good having Theo this close, feeling his breath file over his jaw and neck and cheek. Stiles knows he should push him away. Having him this close is dangerous. Far too dangerous. But he can’t raise his arms, neither to give Theo the shove he deserves nor to wrap his arms around his shoulders like part of him so desperately wants. 

Stiles licks his lips and forces himself to raise his arms and place his hands on Theo’s shoulders. It’s impossible to judge how they might look from the outside, how this might look to people who don’t know them. Because it feels like a fucking dance on prom night, and he’s not the biggest fan. Or maybe, he likes it too much. Fuck.  _ Fuck.  _ “I don’t care about your apology.” He does, more than he’d like to admit. Theo doesn’t apologise. Not usually. So Stiles considers it genuine. 

But it’s still  _ Theo _ , and he shouldn't be this easy. He knows better. He should know better.

“Relax,” Theo says and his fingers tighten around his elbow for the flicker of a second. It’s these slip-ups that make Stiles nervous, especially if they happen around him. Theo's smile is sharp, blue eyes cool in the flashing lights. “You act like I’m forcing you to do something you don’t want to do.” The corner of his mouth twitches before his expression hardens. His hand moves from his elbow to his neck. Theo pulls him down, brushes his lips over his cheek. 

Stiles’ breath catches in his throat. He tries to turn his head away but Theo keeps him in place, fingertips pressing painfully against the nape of his neck. 

“You want this,” Theo says, lips so close he paints every syllable on the shell of his ear, “you want to feel powerful.” 

His words sing to something buried deep inside, and whatever this part may be, it wants to answer, it wants everything Theo has to offer, it wants  _ Theo _ . Stiles knows better than to listen to it. He learned. He should’ve learned. They can be allies. They can fight against the same enemy but Stiles can’t allow him closer. Theo is dangerous, always has been, and the only thing that prevents Stiles from becoming collateral damage is his tie to the nemeton. If he dies, Theo and his chimeras will drop like flies. 

Stiles has to remember that. He cannot let himself forget that.

Theo dragged him through the woods for power. He made him watch Tracy kill her father as a threat. He took the risk of paralysing him to make sure Scott and his relationship remains in shambles. All just to get his will. Because that’s the only thing he cares about, that’s the only thing he came back for. Power. More power just for himself - and wouldn’t it be convenient to keep his personal source of life locked up in his basement. 

“I can give it all to you,” Theo tells him, tracing little circles into the nape of his neck with his thumb, “if you join my pack.”

_ There it is _ . Everything is still about Theo and his pack and his power. It’s about owning him, about making him submit. That’s not going to happen. Stiles squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep breath. “You could’ve left it at the apology,” he says through gritted teeth, “but you just had to ruin it.” 

“So what?” Theo moves back to look him in the eye. “You want to be with people who’ll always see the nogitsune first?” This is neither the time nor the place to discuss something like this. But the people around them are having too much fun to realise what’s going on right next to them. “They look at you and they see danger. I look at you and I see-”

“Power for you to use as you please,” Stiles finishes shoving Theo away hard enough that he catches his balance only after he bumps into the guy dancing behind him. He glares at them, even says something to Theo who doesn’t seem to give a shit. His face twists into a mask of anger, and Stiles curls both his hands into fists to keep himself from grabbing Theo. 

“You don’t understand-”

“No,” Stiles yells, temper rising beyond his control. He has to move. He has to get away or he will do something he’s going to regret. “You're the one who doesn’t understand, Theo.” He never does. Maybe he doesn’t want to understand. Maybe he doesn’t even bother to try and understand why Stiles would rather surround himself with people who are wary of him and what someone like him can do. He knows they, at the very least, will attempt to stop him from hurting someone he cares about. The same can’t be said about Theo. “Leave me alone,” Stiles says before pushing past the chimera and out of the dancing crowd. He’s all but running, wanting distance, needing distance. He can’t do this; he can’t have Theo close to him. 

Maybe Brett is right. Maybe what he needs is a distraction, a way to flush Theo out. He can't risk getting him out of his system by allowing him closer. That's far too reckless. Stiles doesn't trust Theo enough not to sink his claws in even further. Hell, Stiles doesn't even trust himself enough to be over it. Something about the chimera is impossible to shake. Despite everything that happened, Theo made himself a home inside of him. No matter how much he struggles, Stiles has no chance of shaking him off by reminding himself how awful Theo is or what he really wants and that he doesn't care about anything but what he has to do to get more power. 

Stiles runs his fingers through his hair, wishes he could scrape the thoughts out of his head. They'll stick with him, and no matter what distracts him by day, they will haunt him when the darkness creeps in, when he's trying to fall asleep, they will follow him in his dreams where he hides all his other secrets. He won't be able to run. He won't-

Someone collides with him, or perhaps he collides with someone. The impact sends a shock of pain up his arm and into his shoulder. Although he knows very well he didn't watch where he walked either, Stiles is pissed enough to turn around and snap at the other person - only to choke on his words. Brown jacket. Black hair. A smile that will never cease to haunt him. "Donovan."

"Stilinski," he says eyes lit up in all the wrong ways, "haven't seen you in a hot minute." The way he raises his eyebrows with a smirk does nothing to kill the panic crawling its way up his spine. 

He swallows, tries to come off unfazed. But he's failing. He knows he is. "What are you doing here?"

Donovan keeps smiling in a way that is unnerving Stiles. "It's a party," he drawls raising a red cup to his lips. "I'm having  _ fun _ ." The innocent statement is as panic-inducing as it gets. 

Despite himself, Stiles takes a step back, hopes that his smile doesn't show his internal struggle with the fight or flight reflex kicking in. His fingers twitch. Part of him wants to grab the nearest hard object to whack it over Donovan's head. But he'll heal. He did it before. Wendigos shouldn't be able to heal like other supernatural creatures. The werewolf DNA added that little feature because wendigos aren’t strong enough already; no, they also need to heal. Mostly, however, he wants to run - away, into the arms of someone who can help him. Like the fucking damsel in distress he is. 

Stiles grinds his teeth. "Have fun then." Can he smell his fear? Probably. He’s a supernatural asshole. Maybe panic is some kind of special seasoning. Because Donovan grins as if he’s just tasted an exquisite chocolate dessert. Stiles can’t believe this is happening. He can’t believe Donovan is here. It doesn't make any sense. Did he stalk him? No. No, why would he? The guy isn't exactly known for his patience. Maybe- maybe he saw the picture. Maybe he came because he thought that, out here, he can corner Stiles somewhere and off him. 

Fucking hell, this is bad. He needs to go, and he needs to attach himself to somebody’s side. Preferably an alpha werewolf because if the bestiary is right, wendigos have an exorbitant amount of strength. Which would be great if the guy were on his side. Sadly, he most certainly is not. Not even a little bit. 

Donovan nods his head. “Oh, I will.” 


	21. bad blood

When Donovan turns away for whatever reason, Stiles has no intention of waiting to see if this is either a ruse or if he’s about to change his mind. If the guy gives him an opening, the appropriate response is to take it. Sure, Stiles isn’t always known for sensible decisions seeing that he has attacked his fair share of supernatural creatures much stronger than him with a baseball bat, but how does the saying go? Even a broken clock is right twice a day. Couldn't fit him any better. With the amount of terrible ideas he has on a regular basis, he's gotta luck out now and then. He just has to find Brett or Isaac or Liam. One of them will do the trick. At least until Donovan knows how strong he really is. Which he hopefully hasn't figured out since their last unfortunate encounter. 

Stiles glances over his shoulder, just to make sure Donovan doesn't prepare to jump him because he turned away like an idiot. He can't believe he's that lucky. Here he thought he jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire. Ha, suck on that, karma.

But it seems as if Donovan  _ does  _ know people here. In fact, he's talking to the dude who gave Stiles the drugs.  _ Oh _ , oh no. For some reason, it never occurred to him that it's not impossible to have friends from other schools. Lori is friends with Hayden and Sydney. Brett is on his best way to become buddies with him. Why did it never occur to him that Donovan has friends, even some who are still going to high school? The guy is two years older than Stiles. He graduated last year.  _ Of course _ , he knows people his age. 

Fuck.

_ Fuck _ .

This is bad. How does he figure out who's friends with Donovan? Because those are the people he has to avoid at all costs. 

Stiles rubs his hands over his face and sighs. Coming here really doesn't seem so fun any longer. Actually, scratch that. This evening took a dangerous turn, and Stiles should probably inform someone about that so he can get his ass home before Donovan decides it's chowtime. Which might not be in the too distant future. The guy intended to attack him and threatened his dad in the middle of a department full of deputies; it's not as if he has any sort of self-control. 

_ Okay. _

Step one, find a werewolf. Shouldn’t be too hard. Preferably Brett. A bit of extra born-werewolf strength can’t hurt, right? Right. Where would one find said werewolf? Probably somewhere around the dancefloor considering Brett told him to wait for him there. Great. But he should probably take a detour, though, just to be safe. The longer he stays off Donovan's radar the better. 

He barely makes it ten steps, however, because he notices Scott waving at him in his peripheral vision. Taken aback, Stiles comes to a stop. What is happening? It's like his past, present and future decided to meet at the same party. Scratch that. The whole thing sounds like the beginning of a lame joke. 

"What are you doing here?" Stiles asks briefly glancing at the couple walking past him before returning his attention to Scott who doesn't exactly seem to be dressed for the occasion. But neither is Stiles, so he really can't judge. 

Scott avoids his eye. "Isn't that Donovan?" 

"Seems like it."

"I thought…" Scott pulls his shoulders up, eyes darting everywhere. 

Stiles shrugs. "It didn't last." Which, at this point, isn't exactly the outcome anybody would've hoped for. Sure, technically he's not a murderer any longer - at least when it comes to human law since there's no murder if the victim in question still runs around with a beating heart - but Donovan has an agenda and that most definitely ends with Stiles' gruesome death. Someone probably should inform Donovan about the newest development. Unless he knows and that's why he's not attacking him.

How naive.

Just because he can't kill him any longer doesn't mean Donovan isn't going to try and eat his legs - as he phrased it so nicely - because he doesn't strictly need them to survive. He's going to get his revenge. That's just how it is. Even if he has to break every bone in his body. Whatever Donovan has planned, it won't be pleasant. 

"That's good, right?" Scott asks a smile slipping onto his lips. "You can apologise for what happened," he continues gesturing briefly in Donovan's direction with a wave of his hand. 

Stiles blinks.  _ What _ ? That's a joke, right? It has to be. Scott can't expect him to apologise. And for what? Trying to get away from a guy who threatened to eat his legs? He scoffs and crosses his arms. "Yes, sure. I'll tell him I should've sat still when he announced he wanted to eat my legs." He narrows his eyes, as Scott opens his mouth looking surprised. Does he really only notice now that he has no idea what actually happened? It's not like Stiles wouldn't have told him if he ever showed interested in the truth instead of blaming him for a story Theo fed him. "You could ask me what happened." 

Scott's gaze darts away, which is saying so much more than his quiet, "it's fine." And the truth is simple; Stiles still killed someone, just like Kira still killed someone. Whether they had control over it or not, they are different. They are tainted, damaged goods - and no matter how hard Scott would try, they can't be changed back any longer. 

"What do you want?" Stiles asks knowing full well it has to be something that has nothing to do with the party. They haven’t spoken in a while, which was expected seeing how they parted, but four calls in a row - maybe even more, he hasn’t checked - can only mean one thing: there’s trouble on the horizon. And Stiles isn’t prepared for any of it. He doesn’t want to. There’s enough he has to deal with right now. Everything else can wait. 

Scott bites the inside of his cheek, then lets out a breath. "Deaton called me," he says after a moment and steps closer so he has the chance to lower his voice, "the nemeton lost its power."

_ Shit _ . So much for that. Stiles swallows, shrugs slightly. "And?" His nonchalance makes Scott draw his eyebrows together. Right. That's not how he'd react. He's not this offhand with anybody after breaking news like that. "I mean- it's not that big of a deal to be honest. That tree stump only caused problems anyway. And without it, maybe the Dread Doctors will leave." The words taste bitter on his tongue. Lying about something of this magnitude feels rotten. But he trusts Satomi, he trusts Brett. Scott will tell Deaton, and Deaton isn't supposed to know. Not yet. 

"He thinks its power is somewhere else."

"Who does?"

"Deaton," Scott says stepping closer, pressing in like Brett and Theo before.  _ Why _ ? Why won't people keep their distance? Stiles can't do this. He cannot deal with their presence hovering above him, smothering him - like he doesn't understand anything on his own. "We have to figure out where it is. What if someone took it?"

Stiles stares at him, truth dancing on the tip of his tongue, ready to slip past his teeth, his lips and spill like water over the edge of a cliff. He swallows instead and looks away. "The nemeton can't even be found, how would someone take its magic?" 

"Because Deaton said-"

His gaze snaps back, eyes meeting Scott's. "Why does Deaton know?" 

Scott blinks. "What?"

"Why does Deaton  _ know _ ?" How did he figure it out? It doesn’t make any sense. There’s nothing that indicates it. No dying chimeras, no sudden death of the Beacon, no dying ley lines. Everything works just as it did before. Only the source is different - and the magic is tainted. But to figure that out, he must’ve done something. He has to have done something. There’s no other way. What though? What did Deaton do? And why did he do whatever he’s done? Using the nemeton is a no way out option. 

Excruciatingly slow, Scott pulls his shoulder up for a shrug. “He just called me.” 

“And you didn’t ask?” 

Scott shrugs again, eyes darting in every direction but Stiles’. He knows. He knows he should’ve asked Deaton what he did before alarming everyone about the nemeton’s untimely demise - especially in a public place like this. They have no fucking clue who knows, who is part of the supernatural world and who works actively against it. “He said he tried something." 

The underlying message can't be any clearer. They both know Deaton is aware of  _ something  _ having changed. They don't know how he knows - something Stiles needs to figure out as quickly as he can - and Scott would like to know even though it's not of utmost importance to him. Perhaps he even wonders why Stiles cares so much. At one point or another, their paths split and they turned into strangers, into people they only used to know.

Stiles shakes his head. "I don't care about the nemeton. I just want the doctors gone." He turns away, arms close to his body. It's easier to leave it at that. It doesn't matter. Not now. They'll learn when Stiles can control it when Satomi gives him the okay. 

But Scott moves before Stiles has fully turned, so he stops and looks back. "Deaton can't do anything without the nemeton," he explains stepping closer, head bowed in an almost conspiratorial manner. "Without access to its magic, he won't be able to-"

Stiles freezes. " _ Power _ ?" he asks, unable to believe that's what matters the most right now. "That's it? He's out of juice?" So, Brett was right. Dear old Alan Deaton is interested in the nemeton, even had it in the palm of his hands until Stiles came along and turned into a bin for dirty magic. He furrows his brows. If Deaton had access to the nemeton all this time, he must've known something was wrong with its magic.

Why did he never say anything?

Why did he allow three teenagers to sacrifice themselves to the nemeton? Yes, they were desperate enough to go through with it. Yes, this might’ve been their last chance to find their parents. But not even mentioning it? Not even warning them? Deaton had to have known something was up if he figured it out so quickly… right?  _ Right _ ? 

“But we need his help,” Scott objects trying to reach for his arm. 

Stiles pulls away before he can touch him. He can't explain why, doesn't understand why his body instinctively recoils when everybody else's touches are just fine - even Theo's. "I don't."

A shadow crosses Scott's expression. Only for a second. "Because you're with Brett now?"

"I'm not with anyone," Stiles replies, disbelief crawling up his spine. Is he  _ jealous _ ? Angry? After believing Theo over his best friend? "And even if I were, it's none of your fucking business." The lines are drawn, and as of right now, Stiles would recommend nobody to be accidentally caught in the middle - he wouldn't even advise Scott to cross his line. He wears his heart on his sleeve, no matter how often he tries to hide it, and he really does have no intention to show how cold he can become when he wants to. "And I'm going to go now." Because he has bigger problems than Scott. 

"Wait!" 

Stiles isn't fast enough this time, not fast enough to pull away, not fast enough to react, not fast enough to stop. It happens before he realises that something is happening in the first place. Scott's hand finds his wrist, warm - no, hot - and in the next second, Stiles' whole body, his whole being is attuned to a toe-curling, all-consuming sensation. Like getting into a warm bath but better. Eating a lava chocolate cake. No. Better. It's all at once and not enough. A cascade of pure bliss. A shot of perfection straight into his veins. And he wants it. Wants more. Everything. 

This is what it must feel like to get high, to finally get that shot you've craved for far too long. He's seen those people. On the street. At the supermarket. Jittery. Begging. Desperate. He's seen them blissed out. Seen them at a restroom, needle still stuck in their arm. A pale man. Blonde. Nineteen. He remembers him. Remembers the brown eyes staring at nothing. Through him. This is what he must've felt like before it killed him.

Except that Stiles doesn't take drugs.

Except that drugs don't work. 

Except something else does. 

Stiles pulls away with more strength than he thought he had. Or maybe Scott let go of him in the same second. He stumbles, balance flying out the window. He hits the ground. Pain shoots up his spine. Something cuts into his palms. Someone laughs. At him. Or maybe not. Probably. Scott's mouths moves but Stiles doesn't hear him. A hand appears in front of his face. It's the guy with the drugs. Donovan's friend. 

Stiles turns away from him. Afraid to touch. Not wanting to touch him. Out. Away.  _ Up _ . He needs to get up before he can get away. Up. Up.  _ Up.  _ On his feet. He stumbles. Drunk on nothing. His heart hammers faster than the music. He stumbles again. Like a fawn. A laugh crawls up his throat. Except it makes him choke. 

Restroom.

_ Oh god. Fuck _ .

Stiles shoves past the dude with the drugs, past a group of people. His heart beats away. Fast and faster. Out. Bathroom. He's going to throw up. From what? He didn't eat anything. Scott grabbed him. Scott. He knows what it is. Theo wanting him to taste it. Now he did. And it's good. 

But it shouldn't be.

It's bad. So,  _ so  _ bad. Stiles needs it out of his system. Flush it out. Force it out. 

_ Out _ .

Stiles is at the edge of the dancefloor, then in the dark hallway and before he knows it, he kneels in front of the toilet, a finger down his throat. Panic rises with bile, with memories of his mother doing the same. Tears spring in his eyes, and he's choking on everything and nothing at once. 

It's not going. It's still in there. His throat burns for nothing; his stomach twisting and turning. A sob makes him tremble, closes a fist around his throat. It's hard to breathe. He does it anyway. Squeezes his eyes shut. Out.  _ Out _ . He needs out. Air. It needs out. But it's not. It's still there. 

Stiles presses a finger against his lips. He sobs again. Tears burn in his eyes. 

No.

He didn't eat it. Stiles stares at his wrist through tear-dimmed eyes then at the sink and back again. He didn’t  _ eat _ it. Not really. Not with his mouth. If he gets to water, he can scrub it off. He has to. What other choice does he have? He didn't want that. Doesn't. Won't. 

Stiles swallows and tries to get his feet. His legs are shaking. Sink miles away. Another sob rattles his bones. He wipes his eyes, tries to ignore his heart trying to escape its cage. Everything wants out. Wants to flee. Just that there's nothing to run to. Wherever he goes, it'll follow. Unless he gets it out first. So, that’s what he has to do. It’s simple. Easy. No need to panic. All he has to do is scrub it off. That’s not that hard. He can do it.

It’ll be gone before he knows it. 

Getting to his feet is a challenge. His legs don’t work the way they’re supposed to, and he has to pull himself up, bangs against the door with his shoulder. The knob digs into his waist. He swallows. It’s like he’s drunk. His brain clouded with panic and disgust and yes, no, everything all at once. Too much. Everything is going to be better once he's at the sink.

Two steps. Two long strides and his fingers find the edge of the sink. Stiles avoids the mirror like he's been doing for a while now, fumbles with the tap until hot water hits porcelain. He lets it run as he forces the last bit of soap out of the dispenser and rubs it into his skin. He doesn't stop rubbing, not when he holds his wrist underneath the hot water, not when his skin is red, not when it starts to hurt. He still feels it, like insects underneath his skin. It doesn't hurt, doesn't feel uncomfortable. Quite the opposite. It feels like it belongs. It feels right, and his body has no problem adapting to it. 

So it's wrong.

It needs to go. It needs to- someone grabs his hair. Tight. Threatening to rip it out by its roots. His breath catches in his throat. His heart keeps slamming in his chest as his gaze flicks up, meeting brown eyes in the mirror. Brown eyes. Dark hair.

Brown jacket.

Donovan smiles - and that's the last thing Stiles sees.

The ground underneath him is cold and hard. His bones feel stiff. There's a throbbing pain behind his left brow and his wrist burns. He can sense the brightness through closed eyes, hears a groan slip past his own lips. When he dares to look, the second in which he wonders where he is, what happened and why he's on the floor stretches into eternity. His mind is a blur, racing itself to find an answer to too many questions at once. 

Beat up boots appear in his vision. A mix of dirt and blood is smeared on the right one. "Took you long enough," a voice drawls and before he can connect it to a person, Donovan crouches down, "I was worried I went too hard on you." 

A tremor goes through his body, and Stiles pushes away from him but there's a wall at his back. "No-"

Donovan reaches for the collar of his shirt and drags him to his feet as if Stiles weighs nothing at all. His legs buckle when his world turns violently to the left like someone tipped a picture frame to the side. He stumbles into Donovan instead of away from him. Laughter bounces off the narrow restroom's walls. Crude and too amused for what the situation warranted. Stiles' body turns cold and his heart works double. Breath catches in his throat when Donovan traps Stiles between him and the sink. He can feel the hard lines of Donovan's body against his back, can feel the sink digging into his hips. 

"Are you going to be a good boy?" Donovan sneers placing his hands on the sink.

Stiles gaze jumps to the broken mirror, chest constricting painfully. It wasn't broken before. The blood on the shards of glass is new too. He tries to keep his breathing steady but can't seem to do so as he finds a matching wound on his forehead. For a moment, he allows himself to stare at the damage on his face - it will vanish soon, it will heal like the last time - then he takes a breath and locks eyes with Donovan. The courage is a flickering candle at best, and he would have to act on it now if he didn't want to lose it within seconds.

"Are you going to apologise?" Donovan asks leaning closer until their faces are next to each other. "Will you say sorry for accidentally killing me as you ran for your life?" Even he knows. Even Donovan understands what happened, and  _ he _ is the one ending up dead in the process. 

Stiles wants to respond, wants to say something but his teeth refuse to part. 

Donovan tsks, his chest pressing against Stiles' back in a way that makes their positions very clear. Donovan is the one in charge, and they will play by his rules and his rules only. "I don't want your apology," Donovan tells him, fingers tapping to the distant music, "We fought. You won. I'm not a sore loser, Stilinski." That's hard to believe and yet, Donovan seems strangely genuine when he tells him the truth. "It's your mouth that has gotten you in this situation. If you hadn't said anything at the station, I might not have gone after you when Theo suggested it. No matter how much I hate your dad, he treated me with as much respect as I could expect in my situation. But  _ you _ -" Donovan fists his hair and yanks his head back until Stiles has to close his eyes to shield them from the blinding light at the ceiling "- you just had to run your mouth."

Stiles grinds his teeth. Fine, if talking got him into this mess then it's probably best if he doesn't say anything. Although he doubts Donovan is going to change his mind anytime soon. 

"You know, I never really planned on killing you," Donovan continues, his mouth so close to his cheek he can feel his lips moving. "Now, we both know I can't kill you because of unfortunate consequences for my own well-being." He laughs again; something Stiles only knows because of the way Donovan's mouth moves against his cheek. His hold on him keeps him in place no matter how much Stiles struggles - and he does struggle. He grabs his hand, tries to push off the sink but Donovan is a wall behind his back, unfazed by everything Stiles tries to get away. He feels like a mouse captured by a lion. Insignificant and worthless, nothing to be worried about. 

The wound in his forehead doesn't heal either. Stiles can feel the throbbing pain in his skull, can feel the blood running down his face. 

Donovan runs his nose along the side of his face, presses his mouth against the shell of Stiles' ear. "Those freaks don't need you in one piece," he says, the amusement drowning in the promise of something bad, "so I can have my way with you first." 

Stiles slams his elbow back into Donovan's chest. A shock of immense pain is the only result, and Donovan budges. A little bit. Maybe he's more a cat than a mouse but even that difference is not going to help him much. He understands why kitsunes adapted to weapons to even the odds. 

Wait.

What did Theo teach him? If he uses his magic, people connected to him will know where he is. They will come running. Theo is right here. Theo will come. He always does. He always will. All he has to do is find that spark, that strange feeling, that electricity crackling in his veins. The fire. 

Taking a breath, Stiles forces his body to relax, forces himself to focus on nothing but himself and the way his magic has to move. He's done it before. He remembers the heat coming to a boiling point before pushing outward, throwing Theo across the room. No matter how far away that lesson seems, he remembers everything, and he can do it again. He just has to focus. It all happens in his head, after all. If he just-

"Don't waste your breath," Donovan says with an amused chuckle, "you won't be doing any magic tricks in here."

Stiles' eyes fly open and he squints against the bright light, tries to twist his head away. To his surprise, Donovan lets him. He squeezes his eyes shut for a second, then blinks a couple of times. 

Donovan laughs when he locks eyes with him through the broken mirror. "What a pathetic creature you are," he says curling his fingers around Stiles' jaw to force him to turn around. "I'll just have to point a flashlight at you, and all your magic is worthless." Donovan pulls him close, lets him know exactly who's the stronger one, who's in charge, and Stiles' body reacts to the threat, blood running cold, heart hammering against his chest. His hands fight Donovan's chest and he tries to push him away, keep him at a distance. With a smirk, Donovan shoves him back hard enough Stiles bangs into the wall. 

"You're just a boy who doesn't know when to shut up," Donovan continues. His dark eyes turn silver, and he smiles a smile that shows two rows of too many, too sharp teeth. 

Stiles swallows heavily, allows himself to take in the room, his surroundings. There's nothing he can use as a weapon but there's enough space between Donovan and the stalls that Stiles has a shot at passing him. He can make a break for the door. If Donovan is right, and the light is weakening him, he just needs to get outside. It's dark in the hallway, dark in the warehouse aside from the flashes from the light machine.  _ That's  _ why he didn't do anything when they ran into each other in the main hall. 

For a second, he glances at Donovan again then takes his chance. Stiles pushes off the wall and reaches the door. It's almost too easy, too laughable a problem that he can't believe he's made it until his fingers find the doorknob and it doesn't open. He rattles the doorknob, yanks at it fueled with desperation and panic but it remains shut.  _ No. _ Stiles tears at it again and again and again. No. No.  _ No. _

"I know what you are," Donovan drawls, footfalls heavy in the tiny restroom. "Do you really think I'd let you run wild?” 

His eyes dart to the right.  _ Light switch _ .

“Or let you get-” Donovan’s fingers curl around his wrist “-to that?” His grip tightens. Stiles’ bones grind underneath the pressure. Not much more and they might snap. Not much- Donovan moves his hand, covers his mouth instead. He’s seen enough movies to know that’s not a good sign, much less his own experience. It’s not fun, and he really doesn’t need to add any new memories to his already rather large collection of nightmares he can choose from. 

But Donovan doesn’t care. Why would he? Why  _ should _ he? He lifts Stiles off his feet as if he weighs nothing, unperturbed by the struggling and his muffled screaming. That Donovan decided not to kill him isn’t exactly a comforting thought. Stiles grew up in a police family, and he’s been around the supernatural long enough to know worse things than death exist. 

And worse it gets. 

Something buries into his stomach. Not claws. Smaller. Sharper. A pain he’s felt before. Donovan buries his teeth into his skin. He can feel them. All of them. Every single one tearing, ripping, biting. It's worse than before. The screaming doesn't ease the fire spreading from his stomach. He can feel them moving, gnawing. Squeezing his eyes shut, Stiles tries to blend it out, the pain and his face, the terror in those brown eyes staring back at him. But there’s nothing he can do. The pain remains. The image of his face does too. It’s burnt into his memory, just like this very moment will be haunting him in his dreams for a while. 

The thought is almost comforting. Something he’s used to. Something he knows. Nightmares he can deal with. 

As if Donovan read his thoughts, he pulls his hand back and tosses him aside. Stiles barely feels the impact; his body is too consumed with the rest of his pain. He curls into a ball, wraps his arms around his middle. He can feel the heat, the blood - and it hurts. It hurts so much. He's trying to keep it together, to get his wits back, to keep quiet. Nobody will hear him over the music anyway. Nobody- 

Stiles hears something crash. Wood splinters. Maybe. It's hard to identify over the blood rushing in his ears. He doesn't move, just makes himself smaller in an attempt to protect as much as he could. Then someone grabs the back of his shirt. Grinding his teeth, he's ready to attack. Stiles swings a bloody fist in the general direction of where a face could be. 

"No-  _ fuck _ ," Theo hisses, wrapping his fingers around his wrist. "It's me, calm down. I've got you."

"Get your ass in gear, Raeken," Brett yells over the sound of loud banging. 

They found him. They  _ found  _ him. 

Theo hoists him into his arms. “I’ve got you,” he repeats in a whisper and readjusts his grip on him. Cold creeps up his back as his shirt bunches up at his mid-back. But it’s quickly replaced by a warm hand when Theo hoists him up higher. The movement sends pain zapping through his body. Stiles grinds his teeth, tries his best to keep any noises inside but he can't help leaning his head against Theo's chest either, unable to fight the sudden exhaustion.

More banging. A surprised yelp. 

Stiles moves his head a little, enough to see Isaac and Brett trying - and almost failing - to keep the door to the stall furthest to the left shut. Whatever Donovan does on the other side throws Isaac off. He stumbles back a few steps, growls and throws himself against the door again. 

“I’ll bring him home,” Theo says angling their bodies so Stiles’ doesn’t hit the doorframe, “and I’ll keep an eye out. You should get the others out of here.”

“You should  _ get a move on _ ,” Brett snaps, “and if I find out you-” The door budges again and with it he and Isaac. Whatever he wanted to threaten Theo with is forgotten by the time he’s shoving the door shut - and Theo doesn’t seem keen on waiting until he remembers it. 

Instead, he slips out the door, all the while rubbing tiny circles into Stiles' back. “I got you,” Theo repeats for the third time, and Stiles nods closing his eyes. Yes, yes, he does, and that’s okay. That’s fine. It’s what Theo does. Helping him. Saving his life. At least as long as he gets something in return. But he can worry about that later. “Corey,” Theo says, his voice muffled as if he’s talking through a pillow. “Let’s get out of here.” 


	22. poison and longing

When Stiles opens his eyes this time, he can’t feel any pain. He doesn’t wake up on the hard tiles of a restroom floor. He wakes up on a couch. Jordan’s convertible couch, to be exact. He recognizes the pillow next to his head. Theo said he’d bring him home. Well, not  _ home _ but back to where he currently lives. Not that it matters. He’s out, he is safe, and most importantly, he’s healed. There is no blood on his face. Nothing that indicates that Donovan smashed his face into the mirror. There’s no bite wound either. He can feel a bandage around his stomach, but there’s no pain when he feels for something. 

He’s only exhausted. His muscles and bones feel as if he’s been running a marathon. Stiles closes his eyes again, shuffles a bit and pulls the blanket tighter around him. 

“Stiles?” Hayden asks, her voice ever so soft. 

He doesn’t reply or move, keeps pretending to still be asleep. People are not what he wants to deal with right now - even less the chimera pack. If Hayden is here, the rest will be too, and Stiles isn’t up for a discussion or to fight against whatever draws him towards Theo over and over and over again. 

Someone tsks. “Do we have to watch him sleep the whole fucking night?” Tracy asks, and it’s clear by her voice she’s rolling her eyes. If Stiles read her correctly, it’s no surprise she hates him and being here. Everyone and everything capable of drawing Theo’s attention away from her is a thorn in her side. 

“You do know that his death means our death too, right?” Josh shoots back, sounding surprisingly annoyed by her attitude. 

“He’s a bit too old for crib death.” 

“That’s nothing to joke about,” Corey remarks quietly. Silence follows his words, heavy and uncomfortable. It hangs in the air long enough that Stiles is sure the conversation has ended until Corey adds, “if you don’t want to be here, maybe you should go home.” 

“Look who found his balls,” Tracy drawls after a pause, almost as if she considered being nice but then dropped it, “next time you might even look at me while talking.”

“Hey, screw you, Tracy.” 

“Josh,” Theo says in a voice cold and sharp enough to cut steel. This time, the following silence is much shorter, the result of surprise. Partially at least. Someone sucks in a breath like they want to say something, but Theo continues, “Corey is right, Tracy. You should go home.” The words have a strange effect on Stiles. A warm feeling bubbles up, tugs at the corners of his mouth. He has to press his lips together to hide a smile nobody would see anyway. 

“No-”

“He needs rest.” Theo probably doesn’t even look at her. He never does when bossing them around. It’s like he’s above all of it, all of them. Maybe he is. Perhaps he would like to be. “He’s not going to get that with you around.” Now, he’s looking at her. A pointed glare. Or a sneer perhaps. Only so he could see his words take full effect. “Josh, take her home.” 

“What?” It’s a whispered shout, and obviously neither too loud nor petulant enough to warrant a reaction because Josh adds, “I don’t wanna be alone with her when she’s like that.” Understandable. Stiles wouldn’t want to be with her on any day. She’s not exactly the most charming person around. Not that that’s anything new. Maybe the whole resurrection thing worsened her general attitude. He knows the feeling. A shadow creeping in. Losing part of yourself. Everything has a price, even a second shot a life.  _ Especially _ a second shot at life. 

Someone walks through the room. He hears the click of heels, so it’s probably Tracy. Unless Hayden switched shoes, which is unlikely. “Theo,” Tracy breathes clearly, trying to sound seductive. The sound grinds on Stiles’ nerves to the extreme. “You should come home with me.” 

“Oh my god,  _ Tracy _ ,” Hayden groans.

A chair scrapes over the floor. 

“We could use the time- ow!”

“You’re not going to do that again,” Theo warns, his tone remaining cold. But now, there’s something else underneath it. Anger. He’s beyond pissed at whatever she’s done. 

Tracy either doesn’t care or is oblivious to it. “You didn't say that a few nights ago.”

“Careful, Tracy.” 

“Or what?” she snaps, and something slams against wood, her hand on the table. Between that and the volume of her voice, his being asleep becomes more and more unrealistic. "You only want him because he keeps denying you, Theo.” 

Stiles’ stomach twists again. He rolls around and pulls his blanket with him for a peek. He wants to see what’s going on, but they might look at him now that he’s moved. So, he waits, forces himself to breathe steadily, to stay calm, to uncurl his fingers from the blanket he’s keeping in a death grip. 

He waits until Tracy continues talking, "you only want him because someone else is about to snatch him away, and you don't like that.” She’s standing next to Theo, her brown hair hiding her face. She’s bent forward, her hand hovering over Theo’s lap, caught in a tight grip. Theo’s knuckles have turned white. He’s clearly holding on to the shreds of his control. But Tracy isn't stopping. "Because you think you deserve whatever you want even if you don't. If he says no, and he will, what are you gonna do? Fuck him anyway?”

Theo gets to his feet in an explosion of anger. The chair he’s sat on flies to the ground with a clatter, loud enough to startle the other inhabitants of the building. Loud enough to warrant worry - noisy enough that there’s no need for Stiles to pretend any longer. Hayden whips her head around to check on him, but he doesn’t look away from Theo, doesn’t turn away when he slams her against the wall, fingers tight around her throat. 

Her mouth falls open with a gasp. Theo’s not choking her, just reminding her that he could if he wanted to. Tracy places a hand on his arm. “I can give you everything you want,” she says, barely loud enough for Stiles to hear, loud enough she must know her pack is hearing every single word. But she doesn’t care, not even when her eyes are glossing over. She’s crying - either because Theo hurts her physically or emotionally. "He won't. He's not going to let you fuck him the way you want to. But he will. He's  _ so close _ ." She's out of breath, and tries to pull Theo’s hand from her throat. Her feet dangle inches above the ground. "You deserve better, Theo."

"And you are better?" His voice remains cold, calculated. Every single word is chosen wisely, chosen to cut deep and break her open. "That's cute, Tracy. I didn't know you care so much." But he does know. Did know. Has known all along. Theo destroyed Stiles' pack because he saw every single crack and used the right stones to break them open. There is no way he isn't fully aware of Tracy's feelings for him.

And Stiles finds he doesn’t care, not enough to step in and tell Theo to stop. He would let her go if he asked him to. Stiles knows because he’s done it before. But he keeps his mouth shut and decides not to get involved with pack business that’s not his own.

Hayden raises to her feet, hands slamming against the table hard enough to make the cutlery rattle. “Theo,” she says, her voice quieter and calmer than her abrupt movement indicates, “Stiles woke up.” 

At first, nobody moves. The information hangs in the air like a note being tossed across the classroom while the teacher isn’t looking. Theo’s muscles tense, shoulder blades moving underneath the tight black t-shirt as he lets go of Tracy with a sigh and steps away from her. “Leave.” It’s one word, but something must’ve changed because both Tracy and Josh follow the command without further objection. The door slams shut - not before a single helpless sob makes Stiles’ stomach turn. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. 

Someone walks towards him. Expecting Theo, Stiles is mildly surprised when it’s Corey carrying a plate with a sandwich. “You probably don’t feel like eating,” he says softly, crouching down in front of him. “But healing takes a lot of energy, so… I thought…” he trails off when Stiles doesn’t react immediately.  _ I just wanted to do something nice. _ His face falls. 

Stiles hates seeing Corey like that. With a sigh, he pushes the blanket away and sits up. “Thanks.” He offers him a small smile and places the dish on his lap. Eating really isn’t on his list of priorities, but Corey’s strange excitement moves him to take a bite. It’s the whole library thing all over again. The kid wants to do something nice, wants to prove himself he can be a good person and tough as nails. Just that he can’t. He’s too soft, and Stiles dreads the day it will be his downfall. 

Theo crosses his arms. If he’s at all bothered by what happened mere moments ago, he has no problem hiding it. “How are you feeling?” 

“Exhausted,” Stiles admits nibbling on the edge of the sandwich again. He doesn't look at Theo. Not directly at least. Instead, he keeps him in his peripheral vision.

“Is the lighting okay?” Hayden asks, curling a strand of hair around her finger once, then twice before finally crossing the room to sit down on the armrest of the couch. 

Stiles waits for her to elaborate. When she doesn’t, he draws his eyebrows together. “I don’t understand.” 

“You talked in your sleep,” Theo explains, following his pack members towards the couch in long strides, “something about switching off the light.” For a moment, he hesitates, then Theo raises the plate and pulls the blanket over Stiles’ legs. It’s such a strangely considerate gesture. The complete opposite of what he watched a few minutes ago. It’s impossible to tell which Theo is real, or perhaps both versions are authentic depending on what mood he’s in or who he’s talking to or how he’s spoken to. 

Stiles glances at him, but Theo doesn’t look his way when he sits down next to him, so he focuses his attention back on his sandwich and partially Corey. “Donovan said something about light blocking out my powers.” 

Corey shifts into a cross-legged position on the floor. “Is that possible?” 

“Unlikely but not impossible,” Theo says, pulling a knee to his chest. "You should ask Satomi when you see her tomorrow." Probably. It seems like something they should know about. As long as Donovan has the upper hand, Stiles will end up in situations like that - trapped like a cat in a lion's den. 

Stiles nods and puts the sandwich together with the plate next to him. 

Corey perks up. "Do you need anything?"

"Water but I-"

"I'll get you some." He scrambles to his feet and scurries off to the kitchenette. There goes his plan to stay over there and accidentally forget to go back to the couch and his sandwich. He really isn't all that hungry. But he doesn't want to decline the food that's clearly been prepared for him. 

He takes the offered bottle of water. "Thanks."  _ But I can walk _ . Stiles knows he would've added the words if it were anybody else. Corey is just- something about him makes it hard to be annoyed. All he wants is to be helpful. Genuine. He wants friends. Corey wouldn't have complained if Theo had told him to go with Tracy, and she would've run over him.

Maybe Theo knows that. Maybe that's why he chose Josh. 

“You can go to sleep,” Theo says briefly towards Hayden and Corey, loosely wrapping an arm around his leg. “I’ll wake you if something comes up.” 

The chimeras exchange a quick glance.

Stiles almost chokes on his water.  _ Oh god, no _ . Is Theo suggesting that Corey and Hayden leave them alone? Because no. No, no. This is a terrible idea. Theo has gotten far too close even when people surrounded them. Being really and truly alone with him in a room is nothing Stiles wants. Not at all. It’s far too dangerous. His walls are brittle, easy to break down. Theo knows that. Theo would use that. 

He nibbles on his sandwich. “We could watch a movie.” 

“What?” Corey perks up, eyes bright and beaming with excitement. 

“ _ What _ ?” Theo, on the other hand, looks as if he’s just bitten into a lemon. That’s not the face of a happy person.  _ Good _ . 

Stiles quirks his brows. “I can make popcorn.” 

“I can’t say no to popcorn.” Hayden plops onto the couch, throwing an arm around the backrest and hooks her foot around the coffee table, nudging it into Corey’s back, who instantly hops onto the couch between them. It’s not the perfect solution because that only forces him to scoot closer to Theo. Probably neither Hayden nor Corey did it intentionally but Theo uses it to his advantage anyway. 

He adapts, doesn't complain and puts his leg down, falls against the backrest, softens at Stiles' side. The perfect invitation. Scoot closer. Lean against him. Fall asleep wrapped up in his warmth. 

_ I got you. _

Did he do the same for Tracy? Did he let her in just like that? All the kind words. All the promises. The smirks. They meant nothing. He was right. Theo only needs him to survive, to harness whatever power he wants. And Stiles almost fell for it. Let him get too close. Allowed him in. 

_ Something more important than you? Hard to imagine. _

Fuck that, and fuck Theo. But not in a fun way.

Stiles gets to his feet. "Choose a movie." His voice is too clipped. He can feel their eyes on his back. 

His feet carry him towards the kitchenette. A bit unsteady but without any further problems. Corey was right though, healing does take a lot of energy. Energy he doesn't have. He should sleep. Get more rest. But he's hyper-aware of Theo, of his presence, of his touches. Of Tracy touching him. Fucking him. 

_ He wants to. I can smell it on him every time he's near you. _

Stiles squeezes his eyes shut, curls his fingers around the edge of the kitchen counter.  _ Get it out of your head _ . Brett was right. There are only two options. Give in or flush Theo out of his system. He opens the wall cupboard and pulls out a bowl, slams it on the kitchen counter. 

"Everything all right?" Hayden asks. He can hear her frown. Does she care? Or is she just nice to him for survival reasons too? And what about Corey? 

Stiles swallows. "It slipped." Where are Brett and Isaac, and how long was he out? How long will it take them to get here? He licks his lips, forces himself to take a deep breath.

"You know I can-" Hayden trails off, and footsteps fill her silence. Confident. Slow.

_ Theo _ .

Stiles pulls the bag of microwave popcorn off the shelf. "I can do it myself," he snaps before the guy has even reached him. It doesn't stop him. It never does. Not when it comes to Stiles. Pushing him away makes him come closer. Telling him to stop means he tries harder.  _ You only want him because he keeps denying you, Theo _ . The words bounce around his head, looking for places to claw their hooks in just so he will never forget them. He doesn't know if he fixates on this so much to ignore what happened with Donovan or if he's really bothered by it. Ignoring trauma by turning his attention to something else isn't quite uncommon for him, but it doesn't mean this is the best topic to keep mulling over.

Shaking his head, Stiles turns around to walk to the microwave, but Theo stands in his way, placing the sandwich next to him on the counter. He looks over to the couch, only to find it empty. A door closes quietly.  _ Great _ . That's precisely what he didn't want to happen.

"I need them alert," Theo says, stepping closer with a smile that's bordering on far too smug. 

Stiles smacks the bag of unmade popcorn against Theo's chest. An attempt at forcing distance between them, a distance he desperately needs but doesn’t get because Theo grabs the bag and tosses it aside carelessly. He’s still smiling. A smile that makes Stiles’ fingers itch. He crosses his arms tightly over his chest instead. Theo isn’t going to let him pass anyway, and the less reason he gives him to grab hold of him, the better. “Scared?” he asks, tapping a finger against his upper arm. 

“Smart,” Theo replies, pulling the plate towards him again and uses the chance to step a bit closer again. “Donovan is strong.” 

Maybe standing here isn’t the best idea after all. “I can deal with him,” Stiles pushes past him - or attempts to. 

Theo puts a hand on his chest and presses him back against the counter with ease. “No,” he says, drawing a small circle onto his shirt, “not after healing from your wounds.” His gaze flicks down, and although his hand falls away, Stiles still feels as if he’s being pinned against the kitchen counter. 

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.” 

“Theo-”

“I’m sorry.” 

The words stun Stiles into silence, and he can't help but stare at Theo for a few seconds before he even considers to figure out if they're genuine. Theo has gotten too close for Stiles to read him as easily as he used to. And that's bad. That's really fucking bad. He licks his lips, tries to figure out the meaning behind his apology, behind his words.

His game.

Theo steps closer. Too close. Not close enough. “I’m sorry for forcing my way into your mind,” he says, his voice so quiet, his mouth inches from Stiles’, his warmth wrapping around him like a blanket. “I wanted you to see the truth about Scott. I should’ve found another way.” His words become quieter and more broken, something Stiles can relate to - it’s a necessary truth, an admission you’ve carried around for longer than you should’ve. Not because you’re right but because it’s hard to say those words that claw their way out of your throat, leaving it itching and sore. “I’m sorry for what I said on the dancefloor.” His hands find Stiles’ waist. He doesn’t pull or push, just holds him, holds himself against him. “I was jealous, and I make rash decisions when I’m jealous.” 

Stiles widens his eyes, lips parting to echo his words. But nothing comes. Theo and jealousy. Theo admitting to his jealousy, to being jealous of- of what? Him? Scott? Scott and Stiles? There's nothing left but a heap of rubble of the things that once were and won't be again. 

Slowly, one of Theo's hands makes its way up his side. The ghost of a touch. So soft. Too soft. Distracting. His gaze flicks down, lands on his mouth this time.

Stiles needs to say something, acknowledge the ridiculousness of the statement, but he can't. He licks his suddenly too dry lips. A breath is stuck in his throat, barring the words as he realizes what's going to happen. What should not happen. 

Not now.

Not ever.

Theo leans closer, his hand curling around the nape of his neck. He swallows, hesitates. 

_ If he says no, and he will, what are you gonna do? Fuck him anyway? _

"Theo-" the words don't want to roll over his tongue, cling to his throat instead, leaving a painful itch behind. "Don't… please." But Theo doesn't listen. Because Theo doesn’t think the way Stiles does. He takes what he wants regardless of possible consequences. He doesn’t overthink. Doesn’t worry. Doesn’t question if it’s right, if it’s wrong, what could happen if he gives in or if he doesn’t. He doesn’t wonder what it says about him that he feels comfortable around the person who hurt him and his friends. How Theo is ready to hurt more people if the situation warrants it, if he feels like it. Theo doesn’t care to differentiate between what he wants and what is right. 

“ _ No _ .”

Theo’s mouth is on his without a flicker of hesitation, fingertips pressing against the nape of his neck. A shiver runs down his spine as another hand grabs his hip. Then he is pressing their lips together, and that’s everything there is. He doesn’t move, he doesn’t press on – and Stiles doesn’t know what to do. 

_ No,  _ he does. 

Stiles’ hands fly to Theo’s chest. His fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt. It’s an attempt to push him off, but the command gets lost somewhere between his brain and the execution. Now, he stands here, caged between the kitchen counter and Theo. Trapped between what he wants and what he can’t have. He’s not kissing him back, but he isn’t pushing him away either. Any restraint Theo had left crumples to the floor. He crashes into him, presses their bodies together. The belt buckle is a prominent reminder of what is separating them, and no amount of clothing seems to be enough. 

Theo moves his hands and mouth at the same time, two up, one down. Fingers run through his hair, over his back, nails draw lines over his spine. The bandage gives way to the demands, revealing more vulnerable skin. Theo’s mouth finds his neck, and Stiles parts his lips.  _ Get off. Get off. Get off.  _ **_Get off._ ** The words don’t leave his head. They stay there, in an eternal loop as Theo kisses a trail down to his pulse point, licking the skin there. His lips threaten to leave a mark, yet they never stay long enough in place.

_ Say it _ , the voice in his head becomes more urgent,  _ push him off _ . But his body doesn’t listen. Because he wants this. He wants Theo to kiss him, claim him, leave marks for the world to see. 

Doesn’t he?

No. 

No, no, no. He doesn’t. 

Right?

Theo curls his fingers into his hair, pulls his head back, tilts it for easier access to his throat. 

The fluorescent light overhead flickers. No. Wait. He's- he was out. He was  _ out.  _ Theo got him out. Stiles squeezes his eyes shut as reality flickers. He got out. He got  _ out _ . He's at Jordan's. He's not in the restroom. He's not in that restroom. 

He's still in that restroom.

The helplessness pounces on him, takes his breath away. The soft lips become a thousand sharp teeth sinking into his skin, burying into his shoulder, his stomach, his throat. “No.” His voice is barely audible, a drop of rain on hot asphalt. It drowns in the sound of his own rabbit heartbeat. “No, stop.” The hitch in his breath almost kills him. "Let me go!” 

His head snaps up, and he’s staring at him, lips red, gold surrounding dilated pupils. “What?” The confusion is what makes the face morph back into Theo’s. 

But hysteria claws at Stiles’ throat. “Let me go.” He remembers how his fingers are curled into his shirt, and he lets go, curls one into a fist. But Theo catches his fist before it connects, grabs his hand, then his wrist. “Let go of me.” His voice is louder now, amplified by the fear vibrating in his bones. 

“Stiles-“ 

“Let go of me!” 

And he does. Without any warning. His eyes widen. Surprise crosses over his features. Theo is flung backward as if someone has grabbed him by the back of his neck and threw him across the room. Then he hits the ground near the coffee table. He lands on his ass, grunts as he tries - and fails - to soften his fall. Instead, his balance flies out the window. He falls backward, mouth open in a quiet ‘ _ oh _ ’ seconds before the nape of his neck connects with the edge of the coffee table. He slips to the ground. Unmoving. 

Stiles swallows. The silent is heavy. Instant. Too complete. 

“Theo?” he asks, his voice barely louder than a whisper. Clearing his throat, he tries again. “Theo?” 

No response. No movement. 

Stiles pushes off the counter, legs wobbly, barely holding him upright. One step. Another. “Theo?” It’s a game, right? Just a fucking game. Theo is testing him, testing how Stiles would react if something were to happen to him. But his heart plummets when he sees the pool of blood underneath his head. “No.” No. No.  _ Nononono _ . Stiles flings himself forward, legs giving way. He falls too, hits his left elbow hard on the unforgiving ground. The pain barely registers. He pulls himself closer, doesn’t care about the warm blood on his hand as he braces himself next to Theo’s head, too afraid to touch, too scared to-

“What happened?” Hayden stands in the open doorway, hands covering her mouth, eyes wide with terror. Corey doesn’t look any different next to her. 

Stiles doesn’t reply. “Theo?” he asks again, helplessly staring down into blue eyes looking past him, through him, at nothing. 


	23. revelations

Isaac tosses the second towel in the bin and rubs his forehead, smearing blood on his face. He notices and groans then crosses the room. He steps over Theo, whose head has been propped onto another towel and vanishes into the bathroom. In comparison to Theo, Isaac looks like a whirlwind. The chimera still hasn't moved. He's still out cold. He's still-

Stiles' breath catches in his throat.

"Hey,  _ hey- _ " Brett squeezes his shoulder "-he'll be fine. It takes more than a bump on the head to kill someone with supernatural healing."

Stiles swallows. "A broken neck?"

"More," Brett says, smiling weakly. "Trust me, the second he opens his mouth, you’ll wish you  _ did _ accidentally kill him."

Although he appreciates the attempt to lighten the mood - after all, it's something he would find himself doing if the situation was reserved - Stiles can't help but feel terrible about what happened. Theo deserved to be punched in the face for sure, but that's a bit much. He didn't mean to knock him out. He didn't mean to almost kill him. He just wanted to push him off. He wanted him to stop. He wanted to- Stiles sighs and slumps against the couch. Brett wraps an arm around his shoulder and gives him an encouraging squeeze. 

Stupid werewolves and their stupid need for physical affection. Stiles knows that's a thing because he spent an entire summer looking for Erica and Boyd. He saw Isaac's increasing demand for affection, something Derek gave him willingly even though he pretended he hated it. He saw Cora staying close, saw Boyd and Isaac brushing up against each other whenever they had the chance. Stiles knows it grounds them. 

But he's very much not a wolf, and he very much didn't deserve any of this. He clenches his teeth, then allows himself to slump against Brett. He leans his head against his shoulder, for the first time delighted he's smaller than someone else, and watches Hayden and Corey. They crouch next to Theo, and Stiles can't help but wonder if it’s loyalty, a certain sense of gratitude, or real concern that keeps them close. After seeing how he treats Tracy, it's so hard to imagine they would truly miss him. But Stiles doesn't know how Theo is in private, how he behaves when they're alone. Fact is, Stiles might not know as much about Theo as he always pretends he does. 

Isaac waltzes back into the room. "You're a bloody idiot."

Brett sighs. "Isaac-"

"Don't  _ Isaac  _ me," he snaps, wiping his hands on his shirt. There's blood on there as well, and he lets out another groan before yanking it over his head. It's the second shirt this week that's ruined because of him and Theo. He tosses it to the ground where he stands and walks into the bedroom, feeling more comfortable roaming around Jordan’s flat than Stiles does. "What were you thinking?" he asks, opening a drawer purposefully. Fabric rustles for a moment, then the drawer is shut no less forceful. "After what happened at the hospital-" he walks back into the room, pulling a black shirt over his head "-you run to hide in a bathroom? You should've come straight to us." After stepping over Theo's legs yet again, Isaac collapses onto the couch next to Stiles, shoulder pressed against his. 

Stiles shrugs and sits up a bit straighter. "I was on my way to you, then I bumped into Scott."

"I kicked him out," Brett says without waiting a beat, positioning his arm on the backrest from where he pokes Stiles' neck with a finger.  _ I'm bored _ , the gesture exclaims. The fingertip rests against his skin for a second. Stiles can feel it like a mother would feel their kid tugging at her sleeve. Another tap, this time followed by Brett drawing a small circle just underneath his skull. It’s a soft gesture, almost gentle.  _ You don't have to worry _ , it adds. Stiles shudders despite himself. Another tap, shorter than the first, but much more insistent. Stiles barely resists the urge to swat his hand away like he would an obnoxious fly.  _ Will it piss you off?,  _ it wonders. It sure will. Eventually. He’s not used to this. He’s not used to this slow, yet very empathic call for attention. He’s especially not used to being touched by Brett, and he doesn’t need-

_ Wait. _

Brett’s fingertip touches the back of his neck, where it remains for a moment, warm skin pressed against his own. It traces the invisible shape of a nameless object, lingering long enough to leave an impact, and yet nothing happens. No sudden power surge. No odd feeling. Nothing at all. How’s that possible? Why did he feel like that when Scott touched him, but now that Brett is touching him, nothing happens? 

Why did he feel nothing of the sorts when Theo touched him? 

It doesn’t make any sense. 

Isaac snorts. "Clearly not effectively enough." 

"I told him he should get the fuck out if he knows what's good for him," Brett replies, turning his head to look at Isaac. "What the hell else did you want me to do?"

"I told you to walk him out."

"Well, I wanted to, but then that jerk-" he nods in the general direction of Theo "-started a fight."

"And of course, you couldn't say no."

Stiles glances at Brett then back at Theo. Why would he start a fight with Brett? He knows nothing good will come out of it. He also knows Brett is stronger than he is. So, why bother? Why start a fight he knows he's going to lose? 

_ I was jealous, and I make rash decisions when I'm jealous.  _

Oh. 

Is  _ that _ why he kissed him? Is that who Tracy talked about? Brett? Theo can’t be worried about Brett. That’s ridiculous. They’re just fucking around- without the fucking part. They’re just friends. It’s Brett’s humor. Nothing more, nothing less. And even  _ if _ Brett meant what he said, it’s Stiles’ decision. If he wants to fuck Brett, he can. Theo has no right to be upset about it. He has  _ no right _ period. He has especially no right to kiss him when Stiles clearly said no. He has zero right to be upset after screwing Tracy just a few nights ago. Who does he think he  _ is _ ?

"- pass up, innit? This is all a bloody joke to you."

Stiles blinks.  _ Shit _ . What did he miss? Wait- why are Isaac and Brett fighting? This isn't right. They shouldn't be fighting. Not each other, at least. 

Brett huffs. "I'm not discussing this with you right now." 

"You're never discussing anything with anyone," Isaac hurls back, getting to his feet. Okay. Someone's pissed. Duly noted. 

"I'm not the one keeping secrets, pal," Brett replies, an edge to his voice Stiles hasn't heard before. In fact, he didn't even think the guy could get angry seeing how zen he is all the fucking time. He's infuriatingly calm in the worst situations. It begs the question, what does it take to really piss him off? Nobody can be that calm all the time. That’s simply impossible. "I don't do secrets, so don't fucking tell me I'm not talking when you're the one omitting the truth." 

Stiles glances from Isaac to Brett and back again. He has to admit that Isaac did behave strangely. The first time, he noticed it at the hospital, and it was in regards to Scott. Now, everything is revolving around Scott yet again. "What's going on?" Stiles asks, looking directly at Brett because he, as he said himself, doesn't do secrets. He doesn’t strike him as a person who lies either. Brett tells him shit, even when Satomi doesn't want him to. If he wants to figure out the truth, Brett is the way to go. He'll talk. A lie is worth nothing to a werewolf who grew up with everyone around him, hearing the truth with every beat of his heart.

"You first," Isaac demands, ignoring Brett's scoff, "why did you run from Scott? What did he do?" The fact that Isaac is so sure Scott did something should probably raise some red flags.

But Stiles pulls his shoulders up, ignoring every single one. "Nothing." Well, other than asking him to apologize to Donovan who, in return, made him feel like a fucking idiot. It’s just not really noteworthy. Scott being painfully righteous isn’t the end of the fucking world. 

"Bunch of bollocks."

Brett shakes his head. "He says, try again." 

Stiles sinks deeper into the sofa and leans his head back, scowling at the ceiling. "He grabbed my wrist and I-" there's a panel loose at the ceiling, not dangerously so, just enough that they should probably call the maintenance dude before it bounces on Jordan's head eventually "- I don't know. I felt  _ good _ ." 

"Good?" Brett echoes, staring at him with furrowed brows. 

"Too good," Stiles adds, pulling his shoulders up. "Like I took something from him."

Isaac paces near the couch. "Like what?"

"Pain."

Stiles blinks, and sits up straight, ready to push himself off the couch to get to Theo. His heart first leaps into his throat, then swells in relief. His fingers curl around the edge of the couch. In the end, he doesn’t move any further, just watches Theo sit up slowly. “Theo,” he breathes, hoping against hope that nobody heard him over the groan. 

“Pain,” Brett repeats, seriously giving the impression as if he’s nothing more than a very moody parrot - but a very smart one as well. His gaze cuts from Theo to Stiles, and he can feel it burn through his temple. “You wanna feel pain?” Brett asks then, rising to his feet. “Because I can give you pain,  _ Theodore _ .” It’s either the fact that Brett uses his real name or the way it’s rolling off his tongue, but Theo’s eyes widen a fraction, enough to show that he’s actually worried. 

Stiles grabs his arm. “Don’t.”  _ Don’t attack him for something you don’t understand. Don’t attack him for something that was my mistake. Don’t walk away from me _ . Stiles doesn’t know what he’s asking for because he doesn’t know what he wants. Except maybe, he does, even though he shouldn’t want it in the first place. He shouldn’t want to kiss Theo. He shouldn’t want to have him close. He shouldn’t want him to be the one sitting next to him, the one standing up for him, the one to be with him. 

Maybe if the timing didn’t suck, maybe then he would try to figure everything out - what he wants,  _ why _ he wants it. As for now, Brett and Isaac feel safe. They’re normal. They make  _ sense _ . Theo doesn’t. Not at all. Not even a little bit. Nothing about this whole situation makes sense, and he neither has the time nor the energy to dissect his feelings. He'll play it safe by keeping his distance to Theo. If he does that, maybe he can stay safe for a little while longer. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Brett is sitting back down again, eyes narrowed slightly. “After what he did?”

“You told  _ him _ ?” Theo asks, and his tone is a complicated mixture of emotions. It’s clear by his expression he’s more bothered by Stiles telling Brett about what happened than that he told it at all - and it's not like he  _ told _ them. From one moment to the next, they were suddenly there, pulled him away, and asked what was going on. Stiles was a mess. He barely remembers how he said what he said, just that he told someone something about Theo kissing him and that he must've accidentally used his power.

Hayden and Corey exchange a quick glance, but they stay quiet. For a second, Stiles wonders how much they know about Theo's intentions and about how genuine his words and feelings for Stiles are. Because everything he thought he knew about Theo successfully went down the drain. He says he was jealous of Brett, if Stiles even made the right connection, but then he fucks Tracy. He talked about power, tells him he will always be there for him, only to turn around and kiss him despite Stiles stating the opposite. It does not matter that part of him wanted Theo to kiss him. Point is, he said  _ no _ , and he meant  _ no.  _ Did his body send the wrong signals? It probably did. Theo knew Stiles wanted it, even though he said he didn’t. Theo could smell it on him, just like Brett can smell it on Theo, because they are fucking werewolves, and have zero sense of privacy. But it doesn’t matter. Stiles is a chimera now. He’s the new nemeton with less and most definitely dirtier magic. He will cling to the last shreds of normalcy, of his own sanity as long as he can - even if it fucking kills him.

Isaac crosses his arms. “He told us something,” he says in a low voice, reminding Stiles a bit of Jordan staring down at whoever is at the receiving end of his displeasure. "It wasn't hard to put two and two together." But they don’t know the half of it. They've made an assumption based on what they saw, as well as the incoherent mess Stiles must've said kneeling next to Theo as they arrived. In the wake of that chaos, they concluded Theo did something Stiles didn't want. And they were right, but also oh-so wrong.

Theo pushes Hayden’s hand away and gets to his feet alone. For a moment, he looks a bit unsteady. Still, neither chimera moves, knowing better than to force their help onto their alpha, especially in front of Brett and Isaac. “Pain,” he says instead through his teeth, turning away from Isaac and towards Stiles, “that’s what you took from Scott. That’s why you felt so good.” He scrunches up his nose as if he’s smelled something particularly disgusting. It wouldn’t be surprising if Theo is pissed that the first pain Stiles tasted wasn’t his. The guy has very strange priorities. 

Brett runs a hand over his face. “Boy’s got balls,” he mutters, sinking deeper into the couch, spreading his legs, “gotta give him that. First, he's killed, and then he comes to a party.”

Wait.  _ What _ ? “How do you know about that?” And how does one relate to the other? This party has nothing to do with Scott being killed. Unless he got killed again. Has he been killed again? Oh god, Stiles has been a total dick to the guy hours after someone attacked him? Fantastic. This seems to become a recurring thing. Well, not that he knew. How could he have known? Scott looked fine, just like he did when he entered the hospital. 

Isaac pushes past Corey and collapses back onto the couch. “He smelled like blood,” he explains, crossing his ankles on the coffee table. “I asked him why, and he told me Little Timmy over there tried to kill him.” That doesn’t make any fucking sense. That happened how long ago? It feels like a month, but it’s probably much shorter. It can’t be more than ten days. Less perhaps. 

Theo crosses his arms. “I  _ did _ kill him.” That is nothing to be proud of. 

“You did a pisspoor job of killing him is what you did,” Brett shoots back without a flicker of hesitation. 

Stiles takes a deep breath.  _ God _ , one day he will lock both of them in a room, and whoever gets out alive can stay. If things are continuing to unfold as they do now, he will be seeing a lot more of Theo, Brett, and Isaac in the same place at the same time. The last thing he needs is them being fucking dicks to each other ninety-nine percent of the time. They have enough bullshit on their plate as it is. 

"That happened a week ago," Stiles says, massaging his temples.

Isaac blinks. "What? A week?"

"Yes," Stiles replies, pulling his knees to his chest. It has to have been a week. Theo killed Scott the night his dad was hospitalized, so, a day before he accidentally formed an even deeper connection with the nemeton than he's already had. And that was a week ago. Fucking hell,  __ it feels much, much longer. So much bullshit has happened in one week, it’s like a lifetime has passed. __

Brett shifts again, knee bumping against Stiles' leg. There's something way too casual about his behavior. Stiles wonders if he's doing that to piss Theo off. Isaac said it himself, he's never one to turn down a fight. The question is, does Stiles want this? He allows himself to glance at Theo, who is staring at him, clearly expecting him to pull away. It's clear in his narrowed eyes, his clenched jaw. Stiles closes his eyes. 

_ You didn't say that a few nights ago.  _

The pang of pain comes as a surprise. Stiles was so used to Theo wanting him, needing him, putting him first that he never considered he might fuck somebody else - it never even occurred to him that Theo's world does not revolve around Stiles alone. It's something he simply expected because of his stupidly possessive behavior, because of his words and the way he looks at him. Stiles knew all of this was just because of Theo wanting his power, and he doesn't have any right to be pissed at Theo for sleeping with somebody else. They're not together. Theo can kiss whoever he wants to. Stiles can be with whoever he wants to be. 

So, why does it hurt so fucking bad? 

"He still hasn’t healed from his wounds?" Brett's question pulls him out of his thoughts, and Stiles forces his gaze away from Theo. "I get that lethal wounds are harder to heal from, but he-" he briefly juts his chin in Theo's direction "-is not even a real werewolf."

Snarling, Theo curls his hands into fists.

Stiles places his hand on Brett's leg. "Can you  _ please _ quit the teasing for once in your life? I don’t have the energy to deal with your bickering." Or worse, another fight - one he's probably provoking. Stiles shouldn't drag Brett into this mess, into whatever is going on between Theo and him. It doesn't matter if Brett offered to get involved. Even after everything that happened, everything that they've learned about Theo, they still don't understand what he's capable of, the length he's ready to go to reach his goal.

"Scott’s an alpha," Brett says, keeping his leg pressed against his, "no matter how big of a disappointment he might be-" okay, someone is really desperate for confrontation "-it still shouldn't have taken him more than two days to heal from a wound like that." 

Theo works his jaw, icy stare locked on Stiles' hand on Brett's thigh. His comment, however, sounds less angry than he looks, "so, why didn't he heal?"

"He’s either poisoned-"

"Or he keeps himself from healing," Isaac finishes his friend's statement. 

Letting out a breath, Brett leans forward and crosses his arms over his thighs. "I respect your boundaries, Isaac, but I think it’s time for you to open his eyes."

Open whose eyes? "What do you mean?" Stiles asks, looking at Brett before turning to Isaac. "What is he talking about?" He really doesn't like where this conversation is going, and he isn't the biggest fan of keeping shit from people, although he's guilty of that himself. It's wrong and stupid and brings more trouble than it's worth. Stiles learned that the hard way. 

Isaac all but jumps to his feet. "After I left for France and got some distance, I noticed a pattern in Scott’s… well, behavior." He's pacing, runs a hand through his hair. It's almost funny to be the one who's not the most restless person in the room.

"What kind of pattern?" Stiles asks although he's not entirely sure he wants to know the answer - or is ready to believe whatever he will hear.

"Emotional manipulation."

"Emotional- are you- no." Stiles shakes his head. This is a joke. Scott? Scott, who told him only a few hours ago that he should apologize to Donovan for accidentally killing him does not emotionally manipulate people. He wouldn't. He  _ can't.  _ "Just because he’s not healing because he feels guilty doesn’t mean he’s manipulating anybody." Right? Right. 

Isaac frowns, studies Brett's face for a moment, then turns back to Stiles. "When Derek got hurt, it was mine and Scott’s fault," he says after a short pause, clenching and unclenching his fingers at his side. "He wanted to negotiate with Deucalion alone." That sounds like Scott. He's always trying to talk things out first, even if it's pointless. Some people, some creatures, you simply cannot talk to. But Scott will try. He always does, and it's hard to tell if that's good or bad. "I thought it would be better to go with him. I should’ve talked him out of it, but instead I…" trailing off, Isaac ruffles his hair, tugging at his short strands before dropping his arms with a defeated sigh. "I made it look as if Derek’s pack was falling apart."

Stiles wishes he knew how to comfort him. "Isaac… it's not-"

"No… no. It is partly my fault. It was a stupid idea," he says, offering him a weak smile before starting to pace again. "I should’ve told Derek. But that’s not the point." Isaac stops again, turns to look at Stiles, although his eyes dart to the ground after mere seconds. "The point is that Scott didn’t allow himself to heal until everyone told him it’s fine, that he's not the one to blame when he  _ is _ . Just as much as I am. Was." 

Stiles remembers the bus drive towards the motel of hell. He remembers how terrible Scott looked, how he almost died in that shoddy restroom in the middle of nowhere. But  _ still _ . "Isaac-"

This time it's Brett who interrupts him. "He should’ve manned up and admitted his mistake," he says, seizing Isaac up and down before leaning against the backrest again. "What good is he doing anybody walking around like he’s on his last legs? He doesn’t deserve to be a fucking alpha if all he does is throw a pity party hoping everyone comes crawling back to him feeling bad because he’s got a booboo." Someone sounds as if they're speaking from experience. Stiles wonders what happened there.

Theo sits down at the table, gestures for Hayden and Corey to sit down too. The latter briefly glances in the direction of the couch, but Hayden grabs his hand and pulls him after her. Theo collapses onto a chair and massages the nape of his neck. "I hate to say it, but he’s got a point, you know."

"Shut up," Stiles snaps sharper than he intended. "This conversation is for the emotionally stable people in the room." He's not looking in the direction of the table. That doesn't mean he can't feel Theo trying to burn a hole in the side of his face.

Brett scoffs. "I’d be talking to myself then."

"Are you calling _yourself_ emotionally stable?" Isaac asks, turning around to face Brett. The tiniest of smiles curls around his lips, and it takes away a bit of the tension in the room. 

Stiles sighs. "Can we get back on topic, please? Because I’m not convinced."

It's enough to make Isaac's features harden again. "Did he apologize to you for thinking you’re a killer?"

Stiles freezes. "How-"

"I hung out with the angry gnome and Mr. I’m Not Jealous Stiles Dances With Brett But Do You Think He Likes Him?" Isaac replies, throwing his hands in the air. It's hard to imagine him hanging out with Liam and Mason without a purpose. Isaac isn't exactly sociable, and making new friends? If he can help it, he will keep his distance. "Liam's the angry one?" he asks, and Stiles and Brett nod in unison. But, to be fair, Liam had the odds stacked against him last night. Brett hung out with them, Hayden didn't invite him and instead went with his arch-nemesis' sister to a party, and to top it all off, Hayden then stayed with Theo. It's a miracle he didn't go straight home. "The other lad-"

"Mason," Stiles offers.

Isaac waves his hand around. "He's very talkative given the right influence."

Brett chuckles. "You got him drunk?" 

"That's not the point." But the grin spreading on his lips is more than telling.

"Oh my god," Stiles breathes, unable to prevent a chuckle.  _ He did _ . 

Brett barks out a laugh.

Again, Isaac waves his hand around to shut them up. "They got me up to speed on the whole situation. It’s the same mess all over again."

"Isaac, come on. He feels guilty-"

But Isaac is not having it. "Kissing the girl your best friend crushes on is a pretty shitty thing to do, innit?" 

Okay, what the fuck is going on? "How do you know  _ that _ ?" All of those things did happen, but they either happened before Isaac entered their world or after he’d already left. This is stalking levels of research. Stiles really doesn't know how to feel about that. 

"After I apologized to Lydia for trying to kill her, we hung out while Allison was practicing her shooting skills." The apology certainly was necessary, although it's not that they had much of a choice. Derek's plan worked in the end, they were just going after the wrong person in the beginning. "We had a lot of time to talk. I told her I liked Allison, but that I felt bad because of Scott. She told me I shouldn’t because Scott kissed her, knowing you were crushing on her for years." Isaac pauses, crosses and uncrosses his arms then claims his spot next to Stiles on the couch again. "I reckon he used the full moon as an excuse?"

Stiles swallows heavily. Yeah, he was fucking hurt. It still makes him mad to think about Scott making out with Lydia, although he's neither in love with her any longer nor did Scott like her like that. It doesn't change the fact that he kissed the girl Stiles has had a crush on, but- "I mean, it messes with your heads, doesn’t it?"

Isaac pulls a leg on the couch and props his chin on his knee. “It heightens your everything, it doesn’t make you mental.”

Rubbing a hand over his forehead, Stiles briefly glances in Theo’s direction, who looks strangely amused by the whole conversation. Not surprising. After all, Brett and Isaac are trying to make Stiles see that Scott isn’t the nicest person in the world. He probably feels like he’s in a candy store. Behind him, Hayden and Corey share one of the sandwiches that’s still sitting on the plate. They keep their heads down, but Hayden’s pursed lips make clear that she’s not all too happy about the general situation. 

Stiles turns to Brett, who lets out a breath and rolls his eyes. “He’s right. The full moon only heightens the emotions and desires that already exist.” Shrugging briefly, Brett gestures dismissible in Theo’s direction. “I don’t wanna cozy up with the mutt-” Stiles glares at him, he’s really beyond done with their inability to behave like adults around each other, and Brett sighs again “-with Theo. A full moon isn’t going to change that.” The questions forming seem to be pretty obvious because what the fuck  _ does  _ the full moon do to werewolves? "It's basically like getting drunk. The more wasted we are, the less inhibitions we have to act on what we want. It's harder to hide what we usually would keep from others. We get reckless. We do shit we know we shouldn’t do without the full moon’s influence. It doesn’t turn us into a different person entirely. The traits have to be pre-existing for the full moon to affect them."

"So, if someone annoys you-"

"We're more likely to react with violence than under different circumstances," Brett says, nodding briefly. "It's different for bitten werewolves. The bite-" he tries to find the words but ends up with nothing and turns to Isaac for help.

He scowls for a second. "I reckon the bite establishes who you really are. It brings out everything. The good, the bad, and the dirty. The full moon makes all of those traits explode. That confusion is what leads to violent reactions in the beginning. Even more, if you try to fight it. That's why it's easier for new wolves to have an anchor. A person or an object or a feeling we can allow our wolf to obsess over until we learn to accept this new  _ me _ and become one, y'know?" Isaac cocks his head to the side, glances at Brett as if he expects an addition to his words or a nod or some sort of disagreement. But the other werewolf remains quiet, so Isaac shrugs.

Stiles mulls his words over, and although he can't ignore the sinking feeling, he tries to deny what's right in front of him. "Yeah, but…" he trails off, curls his hands into fists, and focuses on Hayden's foot moving back and forth under the table. Stiles swallows. "That only means that Scott-"  _ kissed Lydia because he wanted to?  _ Is that what it is? But Allison- he's been into Allison at that point, wasn't he?

Isaac squeezes his shoulder. "He apologized by making  _ you  _ feel bad for  _ him _ ."

"I don’t know, man," Stiles mutters, shaking his head. 

Brett groans quietly, clearly believing Isaac, and flinches when his friend jumps off the couch without any sort of warning. " _ Fine _ ," he snaps, and his sudden reaction causes Corey and Hayden to pull their attention away from the sandwich, "you want a fourth example?" 

Theo straightens in his chair, clear blue eyes focused on Isaac, hanging on his every word. It's like he knows what's coming, knows that this is the big reveal changing the game. 

And Isaac delivers, loud and angry and hurt, so painfully hurt his voice trembles because of it, "Scott threw me into a wall twice, and you know what his excuse was?"

Stiles stiffens. Did he just hear that correctly? "Wait, wait, wait- he did what?"

Isaac sucks in a breath, curls his hands into fists, but when he starts talking, his voice is quiet and so fucking small, "he tossed me into a wall." Stiles' chest constricts at the admission, with pity, with anger, with memories coming to the surface. Alongside the truth. Alongside the bitter reality.  _ Fuck _ . "I told him I liked Allison, he said it’s chill, then he threw me against a wall." Isaac looks so small, his shoulder sagged, his head down. Stiles wants to do something, but it's Brett who reaches for his friend and pulls him back to the couch. They both make just enough room for Isaac to fit in between them. He stares at his hands when he keeps talking. "He apologized by telling me it was that darkness around his heart you guys caught during the sacrifice." His hands curl into fists, knuckles turning white. "That’s not a bloody apology, but I felt bad for him regardless, so I dropped it." It's hard to tell who the anger is directed at. Himself, Scott, or both of them.

"You never said anything," Stiles says quietly, shoulder and leg pressed against Isaac. It's all he can give right now, but more than enough.

Isaac slumps against the backrest, features relaxing, and he shrugs. "I thought it didn't matter."

"Of course, it mattered!" 

"I know that now." Isaac smiles at him, genuine; his eyes sparkle with the kind of happiness that's heartwarming. "A lot of things have changed now that I'm with Satomi." 

Brett ruffles Isaac's hair with a grin. 

Stiles wants to feel happy for him, he really wants to, but his mind wanders back to the night he yelled at Derek for the better part of an hour because of what he did to Isaac in the name of protecting him. As if Isaac wouldn’t have understood his intentions, had he just explained himself. But Derek couldn't talk. He always put the weight of the world on his shoulders and rather be hated than risk somebody getting hurt because of him.

And then there's Scott. Scott, who knew Stiles lost his shit after hearing how Derek tried to protect Isaac from Boyd's fate. Scott, who agreed that this wasn't the way to go. Scott, who threw Isaac into a wall because of his ex-girlfriend and tried to excuse it with the darkness around his heart. They all died and came back to life. They all struggled. Allison, who was terrified to become like Kate, who lost the trust in herself, who's had hallucinations. Stiles who suffered from sleep-paralysis and nightmares - which could be attributed to his possession, but doesn't necessarily have to be. His anxiety has gotten so much worse. 

Scott, he thought, was just struggling with his wolf. None of them turned violent. Does this darkness around their hearts even exist? Stiles looks past Theo, watches Corey offer Hayden the last piece of the sandwich, watches her tear it in two with a small smile. They're not violent. They're not  _ bad _ . The more he thinks about it, the more it sounds like an excuse made up by Deaton to ensure- to ensure  _ what _ ? What's his end goal? 

Stiles clenches his hand into a fist. 

"Righteous Scott," Theo says, getting to his feet, "I love to see the self-proclaimed heroes fall. They're all so unsuspecting."

"Shut up," Stiles snaps and gets to his feet. "I'm going to talk to him."

"No." Isaac grabs his wrist, his fingertips digging hard into his skin. "I wanted you to know. I don't want you to talk to him about it."

"But-"

"Stiles," Isaac insists, " _ no _ ."

He doesn't like it. In fact, he hates it, and the last thing he wants to do is agree to this bullshit. Scott deserves to be yelled at just as much as Derek did, but he's not going to walk all over Isaac's decision. If he doesn't want this shit to be dragged up again, Stiles is going to respect that. No means no, whether he thinks it's right or not, no matter how much he hates it. If Isaac does not want him to act, he’ll stand down. 

Stiles glances at Brett, who shakes his head with a shrug, and sighs. "Okay."

"Good," Isaac utters, letting go of him to run his hand through his hair again, "because we have other problems to deal with."

"Right." Like the Dread Doctors trying to create some kind of super monster. And Donovan. Although he's much more Stiles' problem than anybody else's. Wait. Donovan. He draws his eyebrows together. "What happened to Donovan?" Did they fight him? Kill him? Did he get away? 

Brett crosses his arms. "He's behind bars."

"Behind bars?" If Brett thinks this is reassuring, Stiles has bad news for him. The last time he was locked up, the Dread Doctors got him out in no time. Seeing that they were the ones who revived him for whatever reason, that’s most definitely going to happen again.

"Yeah, the police arrived at the warehouse shortly after you left," he explains, "Isaac and I planned to dip shortly before they'd find us, but then we noticed it's Parrish, so we stayed and explained what happened."

"Wait, Jordan came to the warehouse?" That doesn't make any sense. He wasn't supposed to be on patrol duty tonight. Stiles knows that because Jordan told him he had to catch up on a shitton of reports to make sure there's nothing in there that could accidentally expose the supernatural. The guy hates desk work, but he's the only one who can do it with his dad still hospitalized, and Jordan is the most responsible person Stiles has ever had the honor to meet. He wouldn't just drop his work for something as minor as trespassing or a party or a noise complaint or whatever brought him to the warehouse in the first place. 

Isaac nods. "That's his job, innit?"

Not tonight. Stiles frowns. "Did he come alone?" Maybe Cerberus noticed something and urged Jordan to go. Then again, Stiles didn't use his powers at the party. He didn't have a reason to be alarmed. He used his powers here, though. But when Donovan is locked up, that’s not one of his major concerns. Tracy and Josh must’ve noticed something as well. Who knows who else felt the ripple of power? Hopefully, not the Dread Doctors. Although, if Donovan is to believe, they already figured out where the nemeton’s power went. 

And then there’s Deaton.

"He arrived with a woman. Dark hair. Small but feisty. Clarke’s her name, I think," Brett replies.

"Valerie Clarke?" Hayden asks in a high-pitched voice. The odds that Jordan decided to check out a trespassing incident and asked her sister of all people to join him aren't exactly zero, but they're rather slim. Especially since Jordan wasn't supposed to be on patrol at all tonight, his decision to ask her to come with him feels deliberate. As if he knew what he would find. Or rather,  _ who _ he was going to find. 

And then they ran into Donovan out of all people.

"The fuck do I know?" Brett replies with a frown. "I didn't ask for an ID."

Stiles whips his head around. Hayden stares at him, lips parted and eyes wide.  _ Shit _ . Oh, shit. That's not good. Growing up with police, she must've made the same connection Stiles did mere seconds ago. They are in trouble. They are in so much trouble. Jordan is going to  _ lynch  _ him if he found out Stiles attended a party the night after he was in the hospital because somebody almost killed him. 

"We gotta go," Hayden says, jumping to her feet in a panic. "I have to get home before-" She freezes, gaze darting to the door. 

Stiles hears it as well. The sound of a key turning a lock. "Fuck me."

The door swings open, revealing Jordan and Clarke, and judging by the looks on their faces, this night is far from over.


	24. hell to the liars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry it took me forever to finish this chapter. Real-life sucked a lot, I didn't have the energy to write, and it certainly didn't help that this chapter was an absolute mess, to begin with. The first draft was rough. Good news though (for whoever is still around lol), the chapter was so long, I split it into two parts. So, I'll plan to upload the next chapter at the weekend! 
> 
> Again, sorry, and thanks for your patience and the lovely comments and kudos. Love you lots!

“Look at him,” Isaac chuckles, nodding in the direction of Brett, “someone’s not used to getting punished.” 

Stiles looks up from the unacknowledged text messages he sent Lydia hours ago. His stomach contorts painfully when all the possible reasons for the lack of an answer wash over him at once - she's hurt, she's in danger, she lost her phone, she doesn't care - and cranes his neck.

Brett slams the coffee pot on the counter and turns around with a scowl. Not used to being punished is an understatement. The guy acts as if he’s never been grounded for a minute in his life. Which he probably hasn’t. Stiles can’t imagine Satomi is the type of woman who goes for this type of punishment. She probably resorts to a very long conversation during which she tells you what you did wrong and why what you did was wrong. Stiles isn’t a hundred percent sure if it worked on Brett. Still, he knows he’d be all over the place if his dad hadn’t occasionally sent him to his room or given him a ban on watching TV or playing video games.

He glances at the bedroom door. Jordan might be sleeping, but since he can still hear the sounds of a movie, they can't be a hundred percent sure, and nobody wants to risk getting caught sneaking out. Not even Theo and Brett.

“I didn’t even want to be at that stupid party.” 

Stiles’ gaze jumps towards the couch, where Theo flips through the pages of a police report, his most obnoxious chimera all but sitting on his lap. No matter how much he enjoys that Tracy has to suffer just as much as they do, seeing her glued to Theo’s side grinds his gears. It shouldn’t, and he knows as much, but her mere existence makes him want to break something. Everything has gotten worse after that stupid not-kiss. Yes, their mouths touched, but Stiles didn’t reciprocate, so it wasn’t a kiss. It needs two to kiss. 

“Y’know,” Isaac whispers, snapping his fingers in front of his face, “I’d be careful with that glare if you don’t want her to spontaneously combust.” 

Stiles shoots him a look. “Don’t be ridiculous.” He takes the cup of coffee Brett offers him, grinding his teeth. It’s not that he wants to hurt Tracy in any way. He just wants to tell her that Theo doesn’t give a rat’s ass about her as a person, that the only thing of value he sees in her is the venom she can produce. Something he’s never going to do because he’s not a complete piece of shit. He’d be satisfied if that water bottle exploded in her hands and-

A shriek cuts through the living room. “Fucking-  _ ew _ .” Tracy jumps to her feet, wiping water out of her eyes, and rushes to the bathroom. The door slams behind her. If Jordan hadn’t been awake before, he definitely is now.

Stiles blinks. Shit. That wasn't- he didn't actually want to-  _ fuck _ .

Theo whips his head around and stares at him, shaking water off the police report absentmindedly. Stiles really wishes he hadn’t seen it because Theo is smirking his little, infuriating knowing smirk.  _ Shit _ . He turns away and catches Brett’s eye. He smirks as well and gives him a thumbs up. Stiles gives him a half-hearted smile. Too bad he can’t be sneaky with his powers because everyone connected to the nemeton will feel that he has used them, and they will know exactly where he is. 

“ _ Stiles _ .” 

-Jordan won’t be happy about it. Especially now. With a sigh, Stiles puts the coffee cup down, rolls his eyes as Isaac pats his shoulder encouragingly and walks to his pissed off sounding guardian. He can’t wait for round two of being scolded. It’s his favorite past-time activity. Seriously, he gets that Jordan is worried, but he was just being an average teenager - something everyone wants him to be - and then he’s told off for doing it. People really need to put their priorities in order. 

Leaving the door open on purpose, Stiles finds Jordan leaning against the headboard, laptop partially closed next to him. The light of the lamp standing on the nightstand, another frown on his face making him look like a seventies movie villain. 

He crosses his arms over his chest. “What happened?” 

Although the question is a lot less accusatory than it could’ve ended up being, it still rubs him the wrong way. “I was attempting to drink coffee,” Stiles replies, probably a bit too passive-aggressive warranted for the situation. “What the fuck are you talking about?”  _ Yes _ , this is how he gets into even more trouble. Fantastic. Because this day doesn’t suck enough already. 

For all but a second, Jordan presses his lips into a thin line and purses them. Stiles wouldn’t have noticed it if he hadn’t watched his expression this closely. Jordan swallows. The corner of his mouth twitches. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.” 

Stiles briefly glances in the direction of the open door. Theo doesn’t even pretend to be subtle about listening to their conversation. He stares at him, still smirking as if he’s aware of a secret nobody else is in on. Except that Stiles knows precisely what he’s so amused about. Annoyed, Stiles turns back to Jordan. “I didn’t mean to,” he says, curling and uncurling his fists in his lap. “It was an accident.” It was, and it wasn’t. Fighting an odd smile trying to sneak onto his lips, he adds, “cross my heart.” Which doesn’t quite put him in a better situation. 

To nobody’s surprise, Jordan’s lips curl into a disapproving line. “Would you mind elaborating on what  _ kind _ of accident it was?”

“Actually,” Stiles starts, taking a breath to throw some bullshit back at Jordan for no other reason than being pissed off at the overall situation he’s maneuvered himself into. His very own, luckily highly functional survival instinct, brought that idea to a screeching halt. “A water bottle exploded,” he explains instead, trying, and judging by Jordan’s raised brows, spectacularly failing to sound sorry. He has this strange feeling that he’s not going to make this any better if he keeps talking. 

Sighing again, Jordan massages the back of his neck, and Stiles has no idea how he manages to look angry while doing so. “Was it an accident earlier tonight as well?” 

Stiles briefly glances in Theo’s direction again. It was an accident, seeing that he didn’t plan to almost kill the guy, but he also wanted him to leave him alone. Not that Stiles can actually tell Jordan any of that, except that he totally can. He’d kick Theo out, right? Well, he might do worse. Maybe Theo deserves worse. Maybe- “I had a night terror.” The lie rolls off his tongue so much easier than any half-truth ever could. He protects him. Why does he keep protecting him?

“And Theo just-” Jordan waves his hand, signaling for Stiles to continue with his story. It’s a surprise he’s waited this long to talk to him about it, but he probably didn’t know how much he could say in front of the chimera pack. Although Stiles is pretty sure they all know exactly what Stiles can do, or rather, what he should be able to do.

“He tried waking me up, I startled and-” he shrugs and throws his hands in the air “- I don’t know, man. It just happens sometimes.” Is he lying to protect Theo? Yes and no. He doesn't want to talk about the not-kiss solely because of the complicated emotions it'll drag up with it. On top of that, he doesn't want Jordan to make such a big deal out of it, and he totally would. Stiles knows he would.

“You need to be more responsible with your new powers." Jordan leans forward, running a hand through his hair. "And you need to get them under control as fast as possible. This can't keep happening."

Nothing he's just been told is news to him in any shape or form. “Well, I was supposed to see Satomi today but seeing that I’m grounded-”

“Don’t  _ push  _ it, Stiles,” Jordan warns, raising his voice which he must’ve noticed because he continues quieter, “your father and I-”

“ _ Oh my god _ .” Stiles really can’t decide what’s worse, the choice of words, or the fact that Jordan already told his dad everything. What a fuckin snitch he is. They couldn’t have settled this without dragging his still not fully recovered dad into this?  _ Really _ ?

“- agree that you cannot leave the house in the middle of the night to go to a party without telling anybody. Of course, there will be consequences. What did you expect?" 

To have  _ one _ good night in his life? Just one. But apparently, that's already too much to ask. Stiles gets to his feet. Although he's aware that Jordan has a point, and that being pissed at him won't change anything, Stiles simply can't help it. He’s actually grounded. That's bullshit. Jordan grounds him. Just like that. And his dad agreed to it. That’s even worse. He hasn’t been grounded since he was eleven - and it was his grandmother grounding him back then. His dad never grounded him once. He sent him to his room to cool off, but grounding him? Nope. Never. So, what the  _ fuck _ ? Isn’t working through the police reports after approximately two hours of sleep enough?

“So, what I’m gathering is that learning to control my powers should be my number one priority, yet it’s less important than your disciplinary measures?” Stiles hates the fact that he’s been grounded, but he also understands it. If he had resisted just a little, Brett surely would’ve driven him home. Stiles didn’t resist, made some terrible choices, and now he’s standing here, suffering the consequences of his actions. That’s all...  _ whatever _ . But why prohibit him from seeing Satomi? That just goes above and beyond him. He completely misses the fucking point of that. There has to be a point. There  _ should _ be a point. 

Jordan sighs, loud and long, and clearly exasperated. “Do you think you're able to do anything right now?” 

What's  _ that  _ supposed to mean? He's good. Well, he's fine. A bit tired, on edge and awfully irritated. Other than that? Perfectly fine. "Yes, I am." Stiles shifts his weight from one foot to the other and scowls. "And I don't need anybody making decisions for me."

"You haven't slept at all since last night," Jordan replies, completely disregarding his objection. 

"I-"

"Passing out is not the same as sleeping, Stiles."

He can hardly argue that. Sure, the lack of sleep he had after this fucked up night isn't going to help him be a high flyer on his first day, but he'd at the very least get the gist of what the hell he's dealing with, or how he's supposed to handle it. Why postpone it? Exhaustion doesn't make him stupid. "Be responsible with your new powers," Stiles parrots, rolling his eyes. "You need to get them under control." Maybe, his exhaustion made him a little stupid. It certainly turned him into a dick. "And yet, here you are, canceling my lesson with Satomi. I know you'd rather I not use them at all, but that's not gonna happen. So, what's it gonna be, Jordan? Punishing me or keeping me safe?"

“Careful, Stiles,” Jordan warns, jabbing his index finger in his general direction, further proving that he and Stiles' father need time apart. “If you had acted a bit more mature, I wouldn’t have to ground you right now.”

“Okay,  _ Dad _ .”

"Don't-" but whatever he intended to say will forever remain a mystery. "Just don't." Silence follows his words. A silence that's met with another colder silence. Like an echo in a dark night you don't immediately identify as one. They are both staring at each other, waiting for the other to cave in. But what intensity Cerberus has, Jordan lacks, and Stiles has years and years of training. There are reasons he has not been grounded by his father. The only person able to beat him is his grandmother. 

Someone cackles quietly, and Stiles automatically turns in the direction of the sound, only to regret it in the same breath. Tracy has returned and whispers something in Theo's ear, her whole body pressed against his side. Although Theo is looking straight at him, his attention is on whatever she tells him. His stomach twists and turns, and Stiles buries his nails in the palm of his hands. Does he have a right to be jealous? No, because Theo isn't his, and he isn't Theo's.  _ Is  _ he jealous?  _ No. _ He's just pissed that he fucking fell for this asshole's charade, believing that Theo’s somehow interested in him while he's fucking Tracy. 

"Fine. Whatever,  _ god. _ " Stiles walks out of the bedroom, slamming the door shut behind him for good measure. It's not that he wants to go back to the police reports, but it gives him something else to focus on than Tracy and Theo and their acting like they're the cuddliest couple ever. He can't watch that any longer without losing his shit. This fucker is playing all of them. He's humoring Tracy by indulging her whenever he needs to mend her heart, so she won't run off. While at the same time, he's pretending that he wants Stiles for something besides his newfound powers.

And he believed it.

If only for a fucking second, Stiles  _ believed  _ him. 

He collapsed onto his chair next to Isaac and pulls out his phone. No calls. No texts. He can't reach Lydia. He has to reach Lydia. He has to talk to her. But she vanished, just up and ran out of this town to do- fuck if he knew. What's so important? What's so fucking important that she doesn't respond to his text messages? He's on the verge of losing it. He's spread too thin, skin tight around the toxic cocktail of feelings he's been bottling up for far too long. Stiles slams his phone onto the kitchen table, can sense Isaac and Brett exchange a quick look, and barely resists the urge to bury his head in his hands. He wants to scream or cry or break something. 

"Someone's in a terrible mood," Theo says, freeing himself from Tracy, who looks all but happy about it. For a brief second, she glares at Stiles, but Theo blocks her view soon after and sits down on a chair next to him.

"I don't think that's a good idea," Isaac says, motioning for Theo to get up again, which he, of fucking course, does not. What is it with people deciding what's good or bad for him? Of course, Isaac's right. It's a terrible idea. The worst idea. Stiles doesn’t want to be anywhere near Theo ever again, not even in a room filled with people. But  _ still _ . He can send Theo away himself if he wants to. He has a mouth, a brain, and free will, thank you very much. If he wants to do the fucked-up thing, let him do the fucked-up thing. Whatever he does is supposed to be  _ his _ decision.

“I don’t really give a shit about what you think,” Theo retorts, before Stiles has the chance to reply, and leans back with a smile on his lips. It’s not the good kind of smile. It’s the kind of smile people will react negatively to. Provoking. Smug.  _ Haughty _ . Someone seems to have enjoyed getting their ass kicked.

Brett snorts out a laugh. "People like you make me question Darwinism."

"It's survival of the fittest, not survival of the smartest," Stiles mutters, rubbing the back of his hand over his eyes. Now that he's sitting again, it seems as if his body had caught up on the fact that he passed out and did not actually rest. His mind is a whole different story. It's not quite racing. In fact, it's more as if his thoughts were dancing on multiple clouds at once, one foot always firmly rooted on a different one. Theo. The cases sitting in front of him. Brett's agenda. Theo kissing him. Scott. Theo fucking Tracy. Donovan being out there. Theo playing him. Last night's pain and terror. Lydia.  _ Lydia _ . 

He flips his phone around. No answer. His stomach twists painfully. Stiles doesn't know how much more he can take.

Theo chuckles, because, of course, he does, and Stiles looks at him, pressing his lips into a thin line. "I'm here to adapt, not to make friends."

"Because he has friends," Tracy chimes in, drawing everyone's attention towards her. Even Theo raises his brows at the statement, and that's not particularly promising. "We don't need anybody else."

Isaac clicks his tongue. "Pretty sure you need him," he says, wrapping an arm around Stiles' shoulders. 

She scoffs and crosses her arms over the table. "No, we don't."

"Honestly, Tracy. Sometimes it's better to keep your mouth shut and give the impression that you have at least one working brain cell, instead of opening your mouth and proving everyone wrong." Stiles pushes his coffee away, shoves Isaac's arm off, and gets to his feet. Get up. Walk away. Cool off. He can't lose it now, not with everyone around, not with everyone staring at him.

But Tracy steps in his way with her hands pressed to her hips and her chin in the air. "If you think you mean anything-" This can't be happening.

"If you think I care, you got me fucked up." His skin tightens. He's  _ so close _ . Take a breath. Push past her.  _ Walk away. _

But his feet refuse to move.

A smile appears on her lips. She'd be a pretty girl if her standard expression wasn't similar to that of a person who just caught the scent of rotten eggs. Flipping her hair over her shoulder, she steps next to Theo. Close enough to make a point. Close enough that Theo looks at him, brows raised, smirk firmly in place.

Walk away. 

Stiles curls his hands into fists.

Walk  _ away _ . Don't do it. Ignore her. Don't- "you think he cares about you?" The words slip past his lips before he can stop them. He doesn't want to be malicious. He doesn't want to rip out her heart and step on it. But he can't help himself. He's so fucking fed up with her, with Theo, with everything. "That he brought you back because he likes you? Do you really think Theo cares about anything but himself? He wants power. All he sees in you is a kanima venom dispenser."

Tracy stiffens. Her wide eyes dart to Theo, clearly begging for a reaction, expecting him to tell Stiles how wrong he is. But he doesn't even look at her. He's looking at Stiles. He can feel Theo's gaze on the side of his face, trying to peel away layer by layer to figure out the truth underneath - a truth nobody but he will be allowed to see.  _ Ever.  _ This is a secret he is going to carry to his grave. 

Theo doesn't agree with Stiles, but he doesn't correct him either, and that is enough to set her off. Her claws snick free as she steps closer.

"I wouldn't do that," Brett says calmly, reaching for the sweetener without even looking at her. 

Stiles shoots him a look. He can handle himself, and he certainly can deal with her.

"Theo," she says, an edge to her voice that's almost heartbreaking.  _ Almost _ . Something inside of Stiles is firmly against pitying her. She’s been with Theo for a while. She must’ve realized by now that he will break her heart. No, he’s not only going to break it. He is going to play with it, rip it out, tear it apart, glue it back together and shove it back in, then everything will start from the beginning. A cycle continued. Rinse and repeat. He will do that until there’s nothing left to mend, or until he doesn’t need her any longer. 

Theo gets to his feet. A smile tugs at the corners of Tracy’s mouth, but he turns his back towards her, and her face falls. Stiles and Theo lock eyes for a brief second. Something heavy settles on Stiles’ chest, pushing against whatever is trying to break free. He parts his lips to suck in a breath, but Theo’s gaze drops to his mouth for a split second, and his lungs seem to forget how to function. 

“I’ve told you before,” Theo says, finally breaking eye-contact, and brushes past Stiles, “I’m not your babysitter.” His pinkie finger trails over the side of Stiles’ hand, too random not to be intentional, and it shoots a jolt of electricity up his arm. “If you want to start a war, be sure you have a chance to win it.” His words are neither here nor there. Is he talking to Tracy? To the room at large? 

Stiles has the urge to grab and shake him until he finally tells him the truth, until he finally says, ‘this is what I want, and this is how I feel.’ But Theo isn’t going to do that, and neither is Stiles. Instead, he pushes past Tracy, grabs another police report, and flicks it open. This is more important than Theo and his fucking games. This is more important than- he catches movement in his peripheral vision, and like a moth drawn to the light, Stiles turns his head. 

Theo is leaning against the counter, one hand wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee. He’s looking at Stiles the way he always is when he thinks he knows something. Lips curled into a smirk, blue eyes sparkling with amusement. Tracy walks towards him, flings her arms around his shoulders the moment he’s within reach.  _ No. _ Theo glances at her for a split second, then his attention returns to Stiles, where it remains, even as she kisses him.  _ Especially _ as she kisses him. 

His breath catches in his throat, and he stiffens. That’s a joke, right? It  _ has to be _ . But it’s not. This is happening. It’s really- Theo pushes her off, opens his mouth, eyes still on Stiles. There's a sort of confusion on his face he hasn't seen like that before. Theo grinds his teeth, looks at Tracy, then back at Stiles. Again, he opens his mouth as if to say something but doesn't. Speechless is a new look on him. 

Stiles swallows, fine.  _ Fine _ . He’s fine. That’s fine. Theo wants to keep playing his game? He can do that, but if he expects to win, he's dead wrong. Stiles takes a breath and forces himself to go numb. He knows that place deep inside him. He can find it in his sleep, can find it in a second. Years of training perfected it. He’ll just have to take a deep breath, count to three, and everything will be perfectly fine. 

"Cut it out," Theo snaps, and Tracy takes a step back, clearly not expecting this treatment. What's been going on between those two? What did it  _ mean _ to Theo?

Stiles breathes in, holds his breath -  _ one, two, three  _ \- and breathes out. His heart slows, his muscles relax. This is where he needs to be. This is where he should be whenever he deals with Theo. Cold. 

"But Theo-"

Detached. 

"No, Tracy."

Pragmatic. 

"It's never going to happen," Tracy says in a low voice.

Stiles opens his eyes and turns back towards the table. "Mountain lion," he says, looking at Brett and Isaac, who look back at him with raised brows. "That usually means werewolf."

"Great," Brett mutters, patting the chair to his right. "So, we either have an omega on our hands, or one of Finch's wolves ran havoc." The brief, slightly concerned look he exchanges with Isaac is not lost on Stiles. He doubts it has something to do with the problem at hand. In fact, Stiles is pretty sure that it has everything to do with him. The last thing he can stomach right now is their combined worry. 

Theo pushes past Tracy as Stiles collapses onto the chair next to Brett, scooting close enough that their legs touch under the table. He offered to be his shield, and Stiles is selfish enough to use him as such. 

"Finch?" Stiles asks, reaching for his mug, "As in-"

"The biology teacher, yes." Isaac draws his eyebrows together.

At this point, Stiles isn't even surprised anymore. If Coach Finstock turned out to be a supernatural creature, Stiles would simply continue with his day. Learning that somebody is human, that's the surprising part of their city. He raps his fingers against the tabletop. "Shouldn't we check that out?"

Theo sits down opposite Stiles. Tracy follows suit, pulling her chair so close that it wouldn't have made much of a difference if she had sat down on his lap. It doesn't bother him. Not at all. Not even a little bit. Stiles is absolutely, one-hundred percent capable of ignoring them - and if not that, then he can bottle his feelings up until he's all by himself and has the luxury to lose his shit. 

"I'll text Satomi," Brett announces, pulling out his phone. 

Stiles tosses the file onto the left stack, which is luckily still distinctly smaller than the non-supernatural one. With the potential werewolf attack, they have a body that has been cut in half - a hunter, presumably, something that’s actually more worrying than a werewolf running loose - as well as a body missing organs. That, funnily enough, is the one they’re the least sure about. While there’s a shitton of lore about organ-eating monsters existing, humans aren’t exactly innocent in that endeavor. Supernatural shenanigans are much more likely seeing that their town is infested by them. Still, they have to be reasonable. 

Maybe they should create three stacks; definitely supernatural, definitely human, further research needed. 

A phone vibrates. Stiles instantly reaches for his. Hopeful, yet painfully aware of his hasty and embarrassingly desperate reaction, he pulls it close and flips it around. His heart  _ aches _ . He understands that Lydia didn’t answer him straight away when he texted her in the middle of the night. But it’s almost eleven, and she hadn’t checked her phone once? Or was she ignoring him? Would she? No. No, she wouldn’t. Then again, she left town without a heads up, without even telling him why. He still doesn’t know. He has  _ no  _ idea why she left. He only knows she did, and that she’ll come back. Eventually, at least, that’s what she said. But what if she doesn’t? What if she’s not coming back? What if something happened to her? Or what if she-  _ stop it _ . He has to stop fucking thinking about it. This is only going to drive him insane. 

_ Fuck.  _

Brett drops his phone on the table. “It’s not one of Finch’s betas,” he explains, wrapping his hands around the mug, “and nobody’s heard anything about an omega wreaking havoc.” Which doesn’t at all exclude the whole omega theory, but it gives a lot of room for other options. 

“What do you reckon it is?”

“Fuck should I know?” Brett replies, contemplating Theo for a moment too long, because the guy tenses visibly. “Maybe another one of his kind. Chimeras are a bit harder to spot.” 

Stiles quirks a brow. “Why?” He gets that chimeras like Corey are harder to see, but the ability to go invisible isn’t exactly a common ability. Which is good, actually. Thinking about another creature with Corey’s abilities that’s malicious instead of sweet is kind of terrifying. The werewolves might have the chance to hear them or catch their scent. Stiles doesn’t have that luxury.

“All of them don’t have an obvious scent,” Brett says, nodding in Tracy’s direction. “Take her, for example. Theo smells like werewolf. Her scent is just… off.” 

“And that’s… not an indicator?” Off sounds wrong, and wrong sounds a lot like a chimera, doesn’t it?

Brett shakes his head. “Drugs, alcohol, illnesses. They mess with your scent. So, smelling weird isn’t exactly an indicator of the supernatural. Or…  _ them _ .” He waves his free hand dismissively in Theo and Tracy’s direction. 

Well,  _ great _ . So, there’s the chance that chimeras are walking among them, and not even the werewolves will be aware of that. Doesn’t sound like a world Stiles wants to live in. He bites the inside of his cheek. Could there be any other chimeras? There are no other missing teenagers. At least, none that they know of. Unless they chose other targets. But would they? A teenager is what gave them their first success. Donovan is another potential success. They can’t be a hundred percent sure about him because of Stiles’ intervention. No, of course, they would choose an adult. They  _ did _ . The weird dude with the talons. 

God, they need this fucking list of everybody in Beacon County who counts as a chimera, or they’re never going to get anywhere. This dance in the dark can’t go on. As long as the Dread Doctors have this information, they’re going to keep the upper hand, and all Stiles will do is react to the damage they’ve caused. He’s so tired of reacting. So, fucking tired. 

“Can there be any chimeras you don’t know about?” Isaac asks, turning his head to study Theo’s face. 

Instead of giving an answer, Theo grabs a file from the stack. It hits the tabletop harder than strictly necessary. As if he has any right to be pissed off. “Car theft,” he says, discarding the file almost immediately. 

“Oi, Tucker, I’m talking to you.” Isaac knocks Theo’s hand away from grabbing the next folder on top of the pile. If he thinks being an asshat is going to help him get an answer, he’s bet on the wrong horse. 

Stiles licks his lips. “Theo,” he says quietly. 

It gets him the desired results. “I don’t know.” Theo doesn’t look happy admitting to this. “If they’ve created any after the nemeton’s death, Stiles would’ve noticed.” So, that’s a resounding no then. He never felt as if someone fucked around with the ley lines. Granted, he doesn’t know how that’s supposed to feel in the first place, but it sounds like a noticeable disturbance in the force. “I had access to every piece of information they acquired over the years, but we didn’t exactly share how our days went over dinner.”

Brett drags a file over the table. “You’re useless, is what you’re saying?” 

Stiles knocks his knee against his thigh. If they continue to be fucking dickheads, Theo won’t answer, much less be of any help to them. “Any chance you can get access to their information again?” 

The reply doesn’t come immediately. Theo closes his eyes and takes a breath. His features soften before he turns to Stiles, something Tracy notices. Her eyes narrow dangerously as Theo runs a hand through his hair with a sigh. “No, not anymore,” he tells him, leaning back in his chair with a slight frown. “Pretty sure they’re not happy about me fucking with their power source.” As in accidentally giving the nemeton the chance to dunk his magic into a new vessel and by that completely ruining it. They’ve only considered what the consequences are for Stiles, they have no idea if the Dread Doctors still can create chimeras. 

"You're a right poet, aren't you?" Isaac drawls, shaking his head. 

Brett lets out a breath and flips open his file. "Cool, even more shit we gotta keep an eye on." 

Stiles takes a file as well, glances at Theo out of the corner of his eye, catches him looking, and turns his head away again. He shifts uncomfortably on the chair for a few moments, until he decides to pull his left leg onto the chair and starts bouncing his right. One hand wrapped around his warm mug, he focuses on the file in front of him. They work through the stack in the middle of the table, mostly in silence. Sometimes it’s pretty obvious that they have something supernatural on their hand - seven files are far too many for his taste - most of the time they’re reading about some human scumbag breaking and entering, selling drugs to kids, or stealing cars. Eight times, however, they’re not a hundred percent sure. 

Tracy flips through the last file in heavy silence, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. She's still smiling as if she won a battle nobody started. Whenever Stiles happens to look at her, it's all but impossible to stay in his detached place. Then he remembers Theo, the glint in his eyes when she kissed him, and suddenly shutting down is manageable again. The worse the pain, the easier it gets. 

They've been sitting here for the better part of the morning, and although they all probably wish they'd be doing something else, Stiles doesn't want to switch tasks with Hayden and the others. Cleaning up the warehouse is the last thing he wants to do right now. Or ever, for that matter. 

Stiles checks his phone once more, ignores the almost worried look Isaac assesses him with and crosses his arms over his chest. With a sigh, he leans back and closes his eyes for a moment. Just a moment. Enough so Stiles can at the very least attempt to sort out his thoughts, but there’s not much to sort through. His mind jumps to Theo kissing him, jumps to Tracy kissing Theo, jumps to Theo’s eyes on him. He swallows and stares at the ceiling. In an irregular rhythm, he taps his mug, feeling a lump form in his throat. That's just what he needs. He's not going to cry. He is  _ not _ . Squeezing his eyes shut, Stiles counts to ten in his head and takes another deep breath. He rocks his chair backward and forward, feels the age-old childish thrill of having it wobble on two legs. He could fall. Hit his head. He could fall and just land on his back. The nervous energy in his stomach feels normal for once. No sheer panic. Just good old excitement coursing through his body.

Something good. 

Something easy. 

“People are crazy,” Tracy says, tossing the last file on the stack of non-supernatural cases. That’s probably the first sensible thing she’s said since her resurrection. “A dude in a cowboy costume kidnapped an old woman.” 

“Cowboy costume?” Brett asks, straightening in his chair. It’s a rather odd reaction to have because of someone who celebrates Halloween belatedly. Well, or simply tries not to be recognized. Which is always a good idea when you kidnap someone in a public place. 

Stiles lets the chair fall back down and watches Brett closely. 

Tracy scrunches up her nose. "Did I stutter?" 

"Shut up," Brett says, and while he is reaching for the file, Stiles and Isaac exchange an equally confused look. It's as much a mystery to Isaac as it is Stiles why the guy reacted as if he had been struck by lightning. Which is good. It makes him feel like less of an uninformed bystander. Brett, with all his knowledge about the supernatural world, sometimes makes him feel this way. It's probably unintentional but  _ still _ . "Huh," he says after a pause and tosses the file back onto the stack, "he got arrested." Brett pauses for a moment then scoffs. "Seems like someone's got a fetish." 

Although Isaac snorts out a laugh, he doesn't seem entirely convinced that there isn't more to that story. He’s not the only one. Even Theo regards Brett almost curiously for a few seconds. Then he seems to remember that he hates the guy, and his expression hardens. 

Stiles makes a mental note to ask Brett later.

"Like I said, just a dude in a costume," Tracy drawls, her voice and her attitude, her sheer  _ existence _ , is just too much. He can’t do that. He can’t stand her. Not now. Not next to Theo. Not anywhere  _ near _ him. Them. Anybody. Out of all the fucking chimeras he resurrected, one had to be her?  _ Why _ her? Clearly, the dude producing scorpion venom would’ve been much more useful. Or the berserker boy. Fuck kanima venom. 

Stiles curls his hands into fists. His anger vibrates deep inside of him. "Shut  _ up _ ." 

“What is your problem?” Tracy asks, but the glint in her eyes means trouble. She wants to provoke him. “Are we a sore loser?” Oh, she definitely wants to provoke him. That  _ bitch _ . That fucking bitch. 

The worst thing about this is that it works. With the rush of anger swallowing him whole, something inside of him cracks. Something tries to get out. He can feel it dancing at his fingertips. “Last time I checked, I still had my dignity.” Stiles curls his hands into fists and tries to push it back in. That's where it belongs. Bottled up. Hidden. Never to be found. 

Brett places a hand on his neck. His thumb softly runs along the base of his scalp. The touch barely lasts a second, and it’s a lot less obnoxious than it had been mere hours ago. It’s less playful. It’s a touch meant to ground, to calm, to take a deep breath. Stiles does. Despite himself, it helps. There’s something about Brett that has a certain type of effect on him. On the people around him. Maybe it’s because of Brett’s strange zen aura. Maybe Stiles isn't a werewolf, but he definitely needs this. He needs grounding touches more than words because words are harder to believe right now.

Tracy's grin looks more like a snarl. "I’ll win," she says quietly, yet when she reaches for Theo's hand, he pulls it away and curls it into a fist. Her eyes widen. She didn't win shit. She never will. Tracy doesn’t mean anything to Theo. She’s power. They’re all just measured by whatever amount of power they possess.


	25. heredity

“I’d compliment you if you won something useful,” Brett deadpans, tracing the rim of his mug with his left index finger. He uses the knuckle of his right one to rub the outer corners of his eyes before he places his arm around Stiles’ shoulders again. “But that guy?” He asks, stifling a yawn, which does not stop him from answering his own question, “he’s the consolation prize nobody wants.” As Tracy’s eyes narrow, and Theo’s jaw tightens, Brett counts on his fingers completely unperturbed. “Not a real alpha. Not a real werewolf. Doesn’t own territory. Weak. Can’t survive without the nemeton. But I guess that counts for all of you little clones.” Winking at her, Brett sips on his coffee, sufficiently satisfied with himself. 

In the following silence, Isaac looks as if he wants to bang his head against the table. Which is quite relatable. As amusing as his attitude can be, sometimes it would be better if Brett just kept his mouth shut. But Stiles doesn’t want to be the person telling Brett that, seeing the guy proves to be a rather helpful Theo repellent. More or less. His presence at the very least stops him from getting too close. In general, his no-fucks-given mindset is strangely calming. If he only were the tiniest bit less aggravating, things would be peachy. 

“You’re bold for someone who can be put into timeout with a bit of powder,” Tracy says.

Brett smiles in a way that’s more threatening than a snarl. “You wanna get some mountain ash? Try it. See what happens.” His thumb taps against the nape of Stiles’ neck, and somehow that only emphasizes the casual threat. “I recommend you behave yourself. Wouldn’t want to be exiled, would you?" 

Nobody wants to exile her. Stiles wants her to be- and it’s best he’s not going to dwell on that thought for far too long. It’s enough if she’s put in her place by someone. Preferably Theo, but Brett would suffice. 

"Exiled?” Tracy draws her eyebrows together. 

“You’re supernatural,” Isaac tells her, crossing one ankle over his knee. “You’re playing by different rules now, Luv. I bet your  _ alpha _ didn’t tell you that.” The way his tone shifts around the word ‘alpha’ makes it abundantly clear that just because Theo helped save Stiles, his opinion on him hasn’t changed. It may have gotten even worse after the whole not-kiss incident. This is  _ the worst _ .

Tracy glances at Theo, who huffs out a breath. “He means that an alpha whose territory we’re on can send us away if he feels like it.”  _ If he feels like it _ . Sure, that’s what all this is about. As if alphas usually make a decision based on whether or not they like a person. 

Stiles would be a terrible alpha. 

Brett scoffs again. “Too bad you’re living on Hale territory.” Depends on how you’re looking at it. Satomi probably wouldn’t have sent Theo away just like that either. Still, it’s not like the guy didn’t give enough reasons to consider sending him on his merry way. 

Flicking a strand of her over her shoulder, Tracy smiles unpleasantly. That expression is something she’s clearly picked up from her lovely alpha, but the execution falls flat. Two out of ten, try again. “As if Scott would ever send us away.” That’s a fair point. Although Theo… perhaps? Then again, he gave everyone second chances. Why should Theo be any different? And if worse comes to worst, they’ll only have to tell him a sob story. Stiles is aware of that, and seeing how easily Theo dismantled their pack, he has definitely figured that out as well.

“Good thing, Scott doesn’t have shit to say.” 

Stiles blinks. “Wait- hold on, dial back a second.” That doesn’t make any sense. He’s the alpha, right? As of right now, Scott is Beacon Hills’ resident alpha, so shouldn’t he be the one who has the last word? Stiles rubs his left brow with his knuckles. He needs a rulebook. Seriously. Can somebody, please, give him a rulebook for the supernatural? Not knowing is the worst. “I don’t understand. Scott is-”

“Not the owner of the Hale territory,” Brett interrupts, leaning back in his chair, and spreads his legs. “Only a Hale wolf can inherit the land  _ unless  _ an alpha explicitly changes the order of succession by leaving behind a will, or he’s been challenged and killed by another alpha.” 

Okay, that sounds simple enough. Death and violence are always a solution, and even the whole inheriting territory makes perfect sense. Still, there’s something he doesn’t quite understand. “But isn’t Scott a Hale wolf?” Stiles asks, frowning at Brett. He should probably use the guy’s talkative mood, it might not last all too long. 

“He’s been turned by a Hale, he’s never been part of the pack.” 

“I don’t-” Stiles squints at Brett. “But he’s still an alpha.”

Isaac shakes his head. “Yeah, I don’t get it either.” 

“It’s not that fucking complicated,” Brett says, rolling his eyes. “You don’t own territory just because you’ve got a fancy set of red glowing eyes. Just like living in a house doesn’t make it yours. You can rent it, but it still belongs to the person you’re paying rent to. If that person’s dead, ownership falls into the hands of their kids, or whoever comes next in terms of heritage.” 

“But, Derek isn’t dead.” 

Isaac points at Stiles as if he wants to say ‘ _ see _ ?’. Which raises the question, what were those two talking about that this particular topic came up in conversation? It sounds strangely specific. 

Theo quietly observes the conversation like he always does when there’s something to learn. If it weren’t so unsettling that they might feed him information he could use against them at a later point in time, Stiles would be distracted by the way his eyes widen. By the way he runs the rim of his mug along his bottom lip in contemplation. It might be even more distracting if Tracy weren’t sitting right next to him. 

Brett’s leg bumps against Stiles’ thigh, dragging his attention back to the topic at hand. “Well, the alpha spark is dead, so the territory falls into the hands of whoever comes next in line of succession and lives on the territory. They’ll be the owner until someone challenges them and pries the territory from their cold dead fingers.” 

Who’d be next in line of succession? For humans, it would be next of kin. So, that means Cora would be the next, right? She’s much more closely related to Derek than Peter is. Wait, no. Cora isn’t living here, which disqualifies her as the possible owner. So, is it Peter’s territory again, even though Derek took it from him? Why is this all so goddamn confusing? As the new nemeton, he probably should be aware of whose land he’s currently supposed to maintain the balance on. It also could be rather useful when it comes to dealing with omegas and such. Or people like Theo. 

Stiles chews on his bottom lip for a moment and squints at Brett. 

Theo loses his patience first. “You gonna name names, or will you just pussyfoot around it forever?” 

Brett glances at Isaac, who, massaging the back of his neck, not so subtly glares back at him. For a second, Stiles has the strange feeling of having a déjà vu. Something about this picture looks so strangely familiar. But he has no idea what. Or why. Have they been in a similar situation before? Probably. It’s not the first time this past week that Isaac had a reason to glare at Brett. 

“Why? You wanna kill someone, Thaddeus?” Brett asks, wiggling his brows, and starts drawing circles at the base of Stiles’ skull. No matter how gentle the gesture is, or how nice it feels, it’s meant to piss Theo off. 

And it works. Theo works his jaw and stares at Stiles as if he’s somehow trying to remove Brett’s hand by sheer force of will. Is he jealous? Is he  _ really _ jealous, or is he just pissed because Stiles rather align himself with Brett and Isaac than him and his chimeras?  _ Fuck _ . Why is it so hard to read him? He’s never had a problem with it before. Theo used to be an open book, and now it’s like he’s staring at a 1000 piece jigsaw puzzle with at least a third of its pieces missing. Stiles doesn’t like that. Not even a little bit. 

“I don’t plan on killing anybody for fucking territory,” Theo replies after a pause, cold stare now directed at Brett.

“Good,” Brett says in a low voice, placing his arm around Stiles’ shoulders again, “because if you as much as harm a single hair on his body, I will decorate you with your entrails.“ He pauses, taps a finger against the wood, and adds, "that goes for Stiles as well in case you were wondering.” Theo’s features harden, but Brett doesn’t seem to care. In fact, he knocks the mug over like a child and smiles when Theo pushes away from the table to escape the hot coffee. 

Isaac throws a towel over the liquid before it has the chance to spill onto the floor. “Real mature, mate.”

“Brett,” Stiles says, aggravated that Isaac is more concerned about the spilled coffee than who the fuck is the owner of the Hale territory, “who is-”

“Well, at least I’m grown up enough to take on responsibility.” Now, that asshole is talking over him as if he didn’t say anything in the first place. But he’s completely ignoring Theo’s glare and Tracy’s snarl too. Not that it’s actually making Stiles feel better about anything. There are moments he doesn’t mind being ignored. Right now isn’t one of them. 

He nudges Brett with his elbow. “Who’s the owner?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be smart or something?”  _ Or something _ feels like the best description at the moment. “Make an educated guess. If you get it right the first time, you get a reward.” Brett wiggles his brows with a smirk, entirely too flirty for the situation. 

Despite everything, it gets to Stiles. He’s never been good at being flirted with, mostly because he doesn’t pick up on the fact that someone is hitting on him. Brett doesn’t know the word subtlety though, and it’s even more pronounced by his sheer glee at pissing Theo off. But then there’s also the fact that Brett straight up said he’d sleep with him, and that’s all very confusing. He doesn’t know how to handle this shit. It makes him nervous. Malia has never made him feel like this. Why does the concept of someone telling him he’s down for sex make him so fucking nervous, but he can go after weird alpha mutations with only a wooden baseball bat? 

For someone who’s pretty vocal about wanting to have sex, and not too terribly looking, he shouldn’t be so nervous when he has a chance to lose his virginity. Relationships that go beyond kissing are confusing and messy, and so far out of his comfort zone, it’s a miracle he managed to have a relationship for as long as he did. Sure, it wasn’t particularly stable, and it definitely wasn’t one of the healthiest relationships on this planet, but it existed. 

“I’m great at guessing.” And absolutely horrendous at flirting. 

Isaac covers his face with his hands and groans. For a moment, he looks more tired than any person his age should look. Stiles would probably pity him, if he weren’t currently distracted by- he blinks.  _ Isaac _ . Why did it never occur to him that Isaac was just as likely to be the owner of the Hale territory as Peter? He’s a Hale wolf. He’s not an alpha. He was one of Derek’s betas - his first real beta seeing that Jackson never ended up being a member of the Hale pack - and he is currently living on the Hale territory. But Peter is too. Still, Brett would never threaten Theo because of Peter. 

“It’s you,” he says, staring at Isaac, and the tired smile he receives is answer enough.  _ Isaac _ . Isaac owns the Hale territory. “But why is it you?” 

Theo stares at Isaac. “Are you  _ kidding _ me?” 

Brett sighs quietly, clearly hating his current position as teacher - Stiles will never understand how knowing things can be annoying - and shrugs. Brett taps his foot and cracks his neck. Only when his arm moves on Stiles’ shoulder does he realise it’s still there in the first place. He’s getting disconcertingly comfortable around Brett, and he really isn’t quite sure how to feel about that. “Because the territory didn’t recognise Peter as its heir after his fishy resurrection.” So, even the supernatural gets confused about people coming back to life. That’s good. Finally something that makes sense. “Nobody knows who the land belonged to between Derek leaving and Isaac coming back though. So, we’re wondering if one or both of Peter’s sons are still living in Beacon Hills.” 

“What?” Isaac blinks. 

“Oh,” Stiles breathes. Right. He totally forgot about Peter’s sons. How could he forget about Peter’s sons? They might be extremely useful. If they are anything like Peter, Stiles is pretty sure they wouldn’t have much of a problem with getting rid of Tracy one way or another, even if they aren’t in possession of the Hale territory. Maybe. Potentially. Okay, they probably won’t. If they’re anything like Peter, they won’t be taking any orders, and they might kill Isaac for their dad’s territory. Well… or not. He really doesn’t have any clue how his sons could’ve turned out. 

Other than the fact that they’re human. 

How could he forget that they’re human? 

Stiles draws his eyebrows together. “And what if they don’t?”

“Well, then someone else from the Hale pack must’ve been around,” Brett says contemplatively. “We would’ve noticed if the territory was empty or abandoned. It’s a werewolf thing. So-”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Isaac interrupts, throwing his hands in the air almost a bit too desperately. “Peter has  _ sons _ ?”

“He has two,” Stiles says, "allegedly." 

“Bloody hell.” 

Brett chuckles. “They  _ do _ exist, but nobody knows who they are, or where they ended up.” Well, if Mrs. Talbot happened to leave behind a set of claws, then perhaps they would have a shot at figuring it out. It worked with Talia’s. Unless, it would be enough to get to Peter. His memories have been manipulated. Maybe even suppressed, but Stiles refuses to believe that a werewolf has the power to erase memories completely. There has to be a way to find those lost boys. And if there isn’t one, Stiles will  _ make _ one.

But what’s he going to do once he finds them? They probably don’t even know what’s going on. They’re only humans, after all. Peter most definitely won’t be interested in two human kids. It’s the reason Talia hid them from him in the first place. They’re not going to challenge Isaac for shit, because chances are good they’re blissfully unaware of the supernatural world. Going above and beyond just to satisfy his curiosity is sheer madness. 

Stiles purses his lips. 

Who’s he kidding? He’s going to lose sleep over this goddamn question. 

Isaac raps his fingers against his coffee mug and quirks his brows. “I reckon we gotta look for narcissistic assholes with sociopathic tendencies and an amazing fashion sense.” With a lopsided smirk, Isaac turns to look at Theo. 

“What?” he snaps, probably sensing Isaac’s gaze on him because he turns away from Stiles. Admitting that he feels Theo’s gaze leaving isn’t something that comes easily. But Stiles does, and he hates it. “Why are you looking at me?” Theo’s tone is a bit more aggressive than strictly necessary. Then again, it’s not like Isaac has given him any reason to play nice. 

“The fashion sense is debatable,” Brett says from behind his own coffee. 

Stiles snorts. “Says Monsieur Sweatpants?” 

“Touché.” Brett pokes the side of his neck with a grin.

Shaking his head, Stiles stifles a yawn with the back of his hand. Theo being Peter’s son, is ridiculous. Sure, there are a few similarities in character, and the age fits as well. He’s not going to deny either of those facts. But that’s about it. Theo doesn’t even look like Peter, and Stiles doubts the guy would be caught dead with Theo’s pink sweater. And there are birth certificates, right? It’s not like the Raekens just decided to adopt Theo, and nobody ever knew. They weren’t even the kind of people who’d adopt a child. Nobody in their right mind would  _ give _ them a child to adopt. 

“Hypothetically speaking,” Isaac says, running a hand over the side of his neck. “If we were to find the kids-”

“Isaac, no.” 

“Okay, but what if-”

“Fuck’s sake, I thought you guys dig the whole royalty schtick?” Brett sounds exhausted enough that Stiles can only guess this conversation has happened multiple times before. “The Hale territory belongs to your British ass. Fucking live with it, because nothing is going to change that.”

Isaac scowls, clearly not wanting to be part of this conversation any longer. So, when he turns to Stiles and contemplates him in silence for a moment, Stiles gets the strange feeling that he’s not going to enjoy the change of topic. The silence drags on a little while longer, unspoken question tangible. That Isaac wonders if he should ask it really doesn’t exactly bode well. The last thing Stiles needs is a pop quiz about something nobody’s going to enjoy speaking about.

Massaging his cheek with his knuckles for a moment, Isaac sighs. “Stiles,” he says then, his voice deliberately light, “can I ask you something?”

“You just did,” Stiles says at the same time as Brett. Snorting out a laugh, Brett offers his fist. Stiles doesn’t need to be told twice. With a grin, he fistbumps the guy, then pulls his mug towards him. “No, sure. What’s up?” Nothing good. Nothing good at all. He just has this terrible gut feeling. Which might also be elicited due to Theo’s cold stare lingering on the side of his face. 

Isaac props his chin onto his hand. "You two are going to be insufferable, aren’t you?”

Theo scoffs while Tracy is smiling as if she’s just gotten the best news of her life.

“The question?” Stiles reminds him, trying to derail the conversation very quickly. Not that he cares about pissing Theo off. It’s just that he really doesn’t want him to egg Brett on again. Those two are the insufferable ones, especially if they really do end up working together. They’ll constantly end up putting a spoke in each other’s wheel. He can already tell.

Isaac scrunches up his face then lets out a breath. “You talked to Scott, right?" 

Stiles stiffens slightly, but nods. 

"Bit odd he just barged in, innit?” Isaac wonders, drawing an invisible circle on the table with his free hand. “What did he want?" 

“Uh.” Stiles licks his lips. That’s an excellent question. A very,  _ very _ good question. He doesn’t know what to say. Well, he knows what to say. He knows what he should say, but he doesn’t want to say it. He doesn’t even want to mention it. “I- uhm-” stuttering his way along isn’t going to help him. His only hope is that perhaps everyone thinks it’s just because of what happened immediately after the conversation. 

Brett quirks a brow. “You don’t remember?” 

_ Say something _ . Instead, he clenches his jaw, too worried he might say something regarding Donovan, and how Scott told him to apologize for potentially killing him. He doesn’t want another opinion on that. He doesn’t want to hear anyone agree. Because they might. Potentially killing someone isn’t exactly something you can just ignore. Although Donovan said so. 

Lydia would drop the topic. She’d know. She- she left, and doesn’t answer the fucking phone. Maybe she doesn’t want to talk to him. Maybe she’s ignoring him. She left together with her mother. They have to be back soon, unless- 

_ No _ . 

But what if they  _ left _ ? What if it has to do with Donovan? What if it has to do with what he did to Donovan? It wouldn’t be the first friendship it ruined. 

“Stiles?” 

He looks up, chest constricting. “What?”

“What did Scott say to you?” Isaac studies his face with a slight frown. 

Right. Yeah. That. "Deaton knows about the nemeton,” he says, pushing the less life-ruining part of the conversation to the forefront of his mind. Sure, everyone told him it was just an accident, that it was him or Donovan, but nobody said if doing what he did changed the way they see him. What if the way Lydia saw him changed? What if she can’t look at him any longer because of what happened? What if- okay, he’s freaking out. Taking a deep breath, he continues, “I mean-” he has to get his shit together, he  _ has _ to ”-he knows it lost its power, but he apparently also thinks it’s somewhere else?“ He scratches his jaw, allows his eyes to linger on Theo for all but a second before he turns his attention back to Isaac. 

Brett works his fingers through his hair. "Any idea how he’s acquired  _ that _ information?" 

"Apparently, he tried something.” Crisis averted.  _ Thank fuck _ . 

Except that Isaac studies him as if he knows Stiles is keeping information to himself. Werewolves are surprisingly easy to lie to once you know how to redirect their attention or are capable of keeping your heartbeat steady. Because werewolves don’t look for cues. They believe what’s in front of them if the heartbeat and chemosignals fit everything else. But Isaac knows him, and he surely doesn’t quite believe him.

“Piece of shit.” Brett slams his hands on the table and gets to his feet. The loss of touch is sudden and weirdly startling. “I fucking  _ knew  _ it.” His anger doesn’t lessen the cold creeping down Stiles’ spine, and he pulls his leg to his chest with a frown, while Brett is pacing near the dining table. Finally, Stiles notices something resembling anger crossing his features. It’s definitely a rarity. And it’s scary. The way his features harden and his eyes flash make abundantly clear that Brett is a person who’d rather use his imposing height and strength than words to settle his differences. 

Decidedly unimpressed, Theo scoffs and leans back in his chair. “So what? He used the nemeton’s magic,” he says, and Stiles wonders if he really doesn’t get it or simply plays dumb to piss Brett off even further. “Get over it. Nobody died.” 

As expected, Brett directs his cold stare at the chimera. “That’s not how it works in the supernatural world,” he says in a low voice, lips curling into a snarl. It takes all but a second until his features straighten and shift into contempt again. Stiles recognizes bottled-up anger when he sees it, mostly because he is great at burying his feelings too. However, it begs the question just  _ how _ much anger Brett is hiding behind his calm facade - and what’s going to happen when he can’t any longer. “But how could a worthless little science project know that?”

Tracy growls, always and forever protective of a guy who doesn’t need any sort of protection in the first place. If Theo is bad at picking fights he shouldn’t, she’s far worse. The problem is, her drive to prove herself will very likely get her killed one day or another, and Theo will move on as if nothing happened. All her loyalty and sacrifice is going to lead to nothing. “Why should we care about the nemeton?” 

“Because,” Isaac says, rolling his eyes dramatically, “it’s what’s keeping you alive.” 

“It’s more than that,” Brett continues, not looking away from Theo, “the nemeton maintains the balance by distributing the power between the packs. The ley lines act as borders for our territory, and they run through our territories. Everything is interconnected. That’s how we know about omegas or other packs entering our territory. The nemeton is constantly giving us input to protect us from each other, and in return, we’re protecting it. It’s a fragile system. If it ever fails… it’s gonna be a complete shitshow. The Dread Doctors don’t care. They probably don’t even know. Deaton should, but he wouldn’t be the first emissary in history who creates a super-alpha and causes absolute chaos.” 

Stiles blinks and focuses on the less terrifying part of the conversation. “A super-alpha?” 

“Scott,” Brett replies, pushing his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants. “Deaton’s probably hooked him up to the nemeton somehow. If done wrong, it can kill you quickly but painfully.” 

Theo watches Brett carefully, making a mental note of every single word, and runs the knuckle of his right index finger along his bottom lip. Stiles remembers him doing that when they were younger, and Stiles went on and on and on about whatever topic interested him in that very moment. He listened. He always listened, and most of the time, Theo sat opposite him on the bleachers after baseball practice, watched him intensely, and traced his bottom lip with the knuckle of his index finger. Strange how some things never change. It’s relieving as well, because, for the first time in a few days, Stiles can finally read Theo again. 

At least partially. 

“How do you do that?” 

Brett shoots Theo a look. “Like I’m telling you.” 

“The werewolf and the nemeton have to form a connection,” Stiles says as realization dawns on him.  _ Of course _ , of fucking course. Deaton connected all of them to the nemeton and then told them to close the door. They never learned how. He never  _ told _ them how. 

Nodding reluctantly, Brett agrees, “yes, and that’s the crux of the matter. If the nemeton thinks you’re not worthy, you’ll die.” 

“What if the nemeton is tricked into forming a connection?” Isaac asks, the same realization dawning on his face that Stiles has had. 

“You can’t just trick the nemeton.” 

“Except that we did,” Stiles says, getting to his feet as excitement runs through his veins.  _ This _ is what he loves. Connecting dots, making sense of the chaos that is the supernatural world. “Scott connected to the nemeton the same way I did. Through that ritual. If I’m still connected to the nemeton-”

Brett huffs out a breath, “then he is as well, and Deaton was feeding him its power the whole time.” 

“Explains why I couldn’t steal his power when I killed him,” Theo says, nudging his bottom lip with a finger, and turns to Stiles, as if he’s the one knowing stuff instead of Brett. “I doubt anyone can. Begs the question, what happens if Scott is cut off from the nemeton’s power?” And if something changed now that the power isn’t as clean as it used to be. 

So, Deaton basically lied to them. But why? What’s his goal? If Brett is correct, which he mostly is since he was born into all those convoluted werewolf rules, then Scott never owned any territory and  _ would _ never own any territory unless an alpha wolf gave it to him. That never happened. Unless… “who  _ has  _ the right to use the nemeton’s magic?” Stiles asks, turning away from Theo and towards Brett. 

“The emissary of the pack whose land the nemeton is located on.” Brett shrugs, then briefly gestures in Stiles’ direction. “And now you. Exclusively, hopefully, but I guess we’ll figure that out in due time.” Which is the most foreboding thing he could’ve said. Mostly, because it’s right. They don’t know for sure, but they certainly will as soon as someone tries to fuck around with the nemeton’s power again; and just because the Dread Doctors wanted Donovan to capture Stiles, doesn’t mean they actually need him. Maybe they just wanted to make sure they have the most amount of power available at all times. 

But that’s what Deaton wanted all along. He wanted to be the emissary of the pack owning the territory the nemeton is located on. Scott was the easiest option. He had him wrapped around his little finger long before he’d been turned. Turning Scott into an alpha, could’ve made the struggling Derek give his land up. But he lost his power before Scott became an alpha, and things remained the same. 

Timing  _ sucks _ sometimes, doesn’t it?

Theo contemplates Stiles for a few minutes. “So, he holds the reins?“

"No,” Brett says, narrowing his eyes, “he maintains the balance.” Well, theoretically, Stiles does, but since he’s barred from training, that’ll have to wait a while longer. 

Rolling his eyes, Theo adds, “but he could fuck up your precious balance… if he wanted to.”

“And why, pray tell, would he want that?” Brett asks, quirking a brow and managing to look thoroughly and utterly unimpressed. 

Theo shrugs. “Everyone can be persuaded.” 

Isaac flicks Theo’s ear causing him to whip his head around with a glare. “If you harm one perfect chocolate brown hair on his head, I’m gonna turn your little chimera ass into a fur coat and give it to him as a birthday present." 

” _ What _ ?“ Theo squints at him, too bemused by the threat to be aggravated by it. 

Stiles snorts out a laugh. "That sounds vaguely familiar.”

“What can I say? I bear grudges.” Isaac winks at him before turning back to Theo, leaning forward as if to appear more imposing. “I mean it, touch him again, and I’ll end you.”

_ For the love of- _ “Will you fucking stop?” Stiles asks, crossing his arms over the table, barely resisting the urge to drop his head onto them. “I don’t need anybody defending my honor. I can do that myself.” Pretty damn well, actually. After all, he could’ve killed Theo easily. Who knows how much damage a chimera can take? He’s not a fucking werewolf. He could’ve killed him on accident. He could’ve killed him because of something he wanted. 

“You don’t know what happened,” Theo snarls, eyes narrowing dangerously. “You weren’t there.”

“Oh, so you didn’t kiss him without his consent?” Brett asks, crossing his arms over his chest. 

Tracy stiffens in her seat. Her eyes feel like needles on his skin. There it is. She knew. She predicted it, and yet she still wants Theo, she still fights for him.  _ Why _ ? What about Theo makes it so impossible to turn away? He treats her like shit, steps on her feelings, her heart, and her dignity. But she stays. 

Stiles swallows and turns away from her. “It’s more complicated than that.” 

“Then, I hope you make this really easy, Stiles.” 

He whips his head around only to find Jordan leaning against the doorway. Everything soft and friendly around him is gone. This is not the guy people are swooning over. This isn’t the neighborhood friendly deputy who carries the groceries for old ladies. This is the guy who’s sharing his body with a hellhound. This is the guy who didn’t hesitate to disarm a bomb. 

It’s a guy who looks like he would shoot Theo if he gave him a reason to.

When Stiles doesn’t say anything, Jordan pushes himself off the door frame. "I think it’s time for everyone to leave,” he says in a low voice, sounding much more like Cerberus than himself, and that really sells the deal, or it would, if Stiles weren’t so damn stubborn. “You’re still grounded.”

“Stop treating me like I’m a child.”

“Then stop  _ acting  _ like one!”

Stiles pushes away from the table and gets to his feet. “Oh, that’s really original.”

“You ignore my orders,” Jordan says, pointing in Theo’s direction as he speaks, “and go with him because you somehow got it into your head that he can teach you  _ anything  _ about what’s going on with you.” They’ve spoken about this before. It should be done. Why isn’t he done? There’s no need to bring it back. “You lie to me. You run off in the middle of the night-”

“That was my-” Brett tries to lessen the blow by taking the blame, something Stiles appreciates.

Jordan quiets him with a single look. “I believe I told you to go.”

Tracy couldn’t get on her feet any quicker, but Theo opens his mouth for a reply. One that is quickly stifled by Isaac, who wraps an arm around the chimera’s shoulders and clamps a hand over his mouth, dragging him to his feet. “We’re leaving.” Oh, that is so not going to end well. Unperturbed by Theo’s struggles, Isaac shoves him towards the door. “Move it, squirt.”

Theo follows the instruction, but he doesn’t leave the flat without looking at Stiles again. With slightly parted lips and a raised brow, it seems like he’s asking a question.  _ You really want me to go _ ? Would he stay if Stiles asked? Maybe. But he’ll never receive an answer to that question because Isaac pushes him out of the door, and Brett slams it shut behind them.

Jordan doesn’t wait until they’ve had enough time to exit the hallway. “You run off in the middle of the night,” he repeats, in a voice that’s somehow exceptionally quiet and, at the same time, terrifyingly angry, “and break into a warehouse to go to an illegal party." 

Stiles doesn’t know what to reply. He’s aware of all that. He’s also highly aware that all of his decisions were decidedly terrible. But it happened. It fucking happened. Being attacked by Donovan and sorting through the fucking police records should suffice as punishment, shouldn’t it? He just wants to forget the last two days. Push a single button and undo everything. Start over. Delete his emotions. Karma got him. Let’s move on. 

For the first time in his life, Stiles can tell that saying anything like that would make things so much worse. 

"And despite my warnings, you use your powers twice in a matter of hours,” Jordan continues, and although he’s not that much taller, Stiles feels exceptionally small right in front of him. “I’m pretty sure John taught you better than that. This isn’t a joke, Stiles. You, of all people, should know better than that.”

Clenching his fists at his sides, Stiles looks to the left and down. “I can’t control it.”

“Well, you have to, or every single supernatural creature somehow connected to the nemeton will find you.” 

“This isn’t fucking new information, okay?” Stiles doesn’t want to yell. He doesn’t have the energy to fight, especially not with Jordan, or because of what’s going on inside of him. How the fuck is he supposed to explain all that? He doesn’t even understand it himself.

Jordan crosses his arms. "Then behave accordingly! If you don’t get it together, you’re going to put everyone around you at risk.” The words feel like a slap in the face. Unable to stop it, Stiles takes a step back, nails biting into the palms of his hands. His heart picks up, anger makes itself a home inside his body, causing a fire, rattling his bones like an earthquake. “The nemeton is dead, Stiles, and it chose  _ you _ . I don’t like it. Your dad doesn’t either.” How much is Jordan talking with his dad about what’s going on exactly? And  _ what  _ is he telling him? “But it is, what it is,” Jordan says, lowering his arms and steps closer. “So,  _ grow up _ .”

Stiles’ muscles tighten. His hands tremble, and he doesn’t know if he wants sob or scream. Growing up is what he’s been doing since his mother’s sickness became worse. “I didn’t ask for this.” He hardly knows what’s going on with him. He doesn’t know what he is. He still doesn’t know where he’s supposed to go. He didn’t even have the chance to prepare himself, much less to make a goddamn decision. This is it. No turning back. No changing the game. Something decided that this is  _ it _ , so this is what’s it going to be.

“You think I asked to be possessed by a hellhound?” Jordan doesn’t sound angry anymore. Instead, his lips curl into an almost disappointed line. “We can’t run from this. It’s who we are now.” For a moment, he falls silent, studies his face. Right.  _ Right _ . Jordan is stuck with the same dilemma. Something chose him as a vessel. Something chose him and changed his whole fucking life. If anyone understood how Stiles felt, it would be Jordan. Or so he thought. “I don’t want you to throw your life away, but I expect you to be responsible. Using your powers to explode a water bottle is not responsible.” 

Stiles clenches his fists at his side and stares past Jordan.

“And then Theo-”

His gaze snaps back to the other’s face. “Theo didn’t- this has nothing to do with Theo. That whole thing was a misunderstanding.” 

“You say that, but how do I know you’re telling me the truth?” Jordan shakes his head. “Trust is earned, Stiles. You have to get your shit together. Instead of doing that, you’re lying to us, to yourself, to everyone.” Every single word is a slap across the face. They sting. They hurt terribly. They are  _ meant  _ to, but they’re also meant to wake him up. Jordan isn’t saying these things to hurt him for no reason. He’s not vicious. He’s not an asshole. He isn’t like Stiles, who carefully picks out every single word and strings them together for the most painful impact. “Keeping secrets from your friends or your partner, sooner or later, that’ll get one of you hurt. You know that better than anyone.” Jordan grabs his shoulders. Something in Stiles breaks at the gentle touch. His vision blurs, and he squeezes his eyes shut, trying to keep the lump in his throat from forming. “You can’t do this by yourself. I won’t let you do this alone. But we need to work with each other. I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me. And I’m pretty sure Lydia will agree-”

The anger slams back into him like a wrecking ball. “Well, she’s not here, is she?” Stiles pushes Jordan’s hands off his shoulders and turns away, getting a brief glimpse of the suddenly empty table, of Theo’s empty chair, the mug he used. He wants to look somewhere else, he wants to ignore how much more painful Lydia’s disappearance becomes when he thinks about his reluctance to leave. Someone like Theo wants to stay while his friends are leaving him one by one. What exactly does that say about him? “She left. She didn’t even tell me. She just fucking left, and she’s-”

Jordan grabs him by the upper arms, his grip tighter than before. “She didn’t leave  _ you _ .”

“How would you know?” Stiles gave her a reason to turn away from him, just like Scott gave the pack multiple reasons to turn away. He’s keeping shit from his friends. He lied to them. Next thing he knows, he’ll trust a shady stranger over his friends. Next time, he will kill someone for real, and what then? Maybe they know. Maybe Lydia just can’t handle this knowledge. She’s surrounded by so much death, having a best friend who’s responsible for one might be too much. 

Jordan shakes his head. “That’s not like her.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Stiles, you’re being ridiculous.” 

“Am I?” It doesn’t feel like it. It doesn’t feel like that at all. Isaac’s question opened a box he didn’t even know he closed in the first place. Now that the lid is cracked, the words slowly filter through and sink like stones. Maybe he got too confident about Donovan’s potential death because both Jordan and his dad told him it was an accident, and accidents happen, right? He didn’t mean to. He just pulled a pin, hoping to bring the whole thing down, hoping the surprise would keep Donovan down longer than the impact would Stiles. But it didn’t happen like that, and maybe, just maybe, he was so horrified by his actions because he knew exactly what would happen if he pulled that pin. What if Lydia figured that out too? She’s smart. She knows him; maybe better than he knows himself. 

“Why do you think Lydia would leave you?” Jordan squeezes his arms gently. The anger and exasperation in his expression made room for worry. It’s almost worse than disappointment. But only almost. They don’t share the same sharp edge burying into his chest, the knife’s point just so nudging his heart. Enough to hurt. Far from lethal. And maybe that’s the worst part about this.

Stiles shifts his gaze towards the ground. He can’t look at him. He can’t bear seeing Jordan worried and shit. Not now. Shaking his head, he pulls away. He’s almost surprised when Jordan lets go of him with a sigh, but he’s grateful that he does. The last thing he needs is being forced to stay still while Jordan pities him for something, Stiles shouldn’t be pitied for in the first place. The memory of that night is hazy. He remembers that all he did was react. He didn’t have time to think. All he did was try to survive. He didn’t know. He couldn’t have known. This wasn’t murder. That was an accident. His dad agreed. Jordan agreed. And they know. They have to know. 

_ Right _ ? 

Since the nogitsune, Stiles has been aware that surviving comes with a price. He never thought it would be this destructive and painful.

“You need to talk to me.”

Stiles doesn’t reply. He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know how to put into words what he feels because Jordan wouldn’t get it. Collapsing onto the couch, Stiles pulls the blanket tight around him and squeezes his eyes shut. Jordan doesn’t get it because he doesn’t know him. He doesn’t know him the way Lydia and Scott do - the way Theo does. All three of them are aware of this darkness inside of him. It has been there before the nogitsune, and it’s still there. Everybody could tell. Theo was just the first one to put it into words. 

When he doesn’t reply, Jordan presses on, “Kiddo, I can’t help you if you refuse to talk to me.”

Chuckling weakly, Stiles hugs his legs to his chest. “Can’t punish me either.” 

"Stiles,” Jordan warns, crossing the room to stand in front of the couch. “This isn’t a joke. You can’t keep everything bottled up.” With a sigh, he sits down next to him and studies the side of his face. “What happened?" 

Picking at the blanket, Stiles scoffs. "Donovan nibbled on my insides, I guess." 

"But that’s not what’s got you so worked up over Lydia.” Jordan places a hand on the back of his head, and Stiles falls against his shoulder, exhausted, his composure cracking open under this caring touches. 

He licks his lips and stares at the door. “Scott was at the party too,” Stiles says quietly, fiddling with the heavy blanket absentmindedly. “He said, I should apologize to Donovan for accidentally killing him.” Although Jordan stiffens at his side, he doesn’t say anything, as if he’s sensing that there’s more to add. “He still blames me for what happened. Maybe Lydia changed her mind? I mean…” he trails off, not sure what to add, and shrugs. 

“No,” Jordan says with a surprising amount of conviction. “Lydia knows you.” And that’s the problem. She knows, and everything she knows could’ve turned her away from him. 

Stiles pulls away. “Then why isn’t she answering her phone?” His question is met with silence. Heavy. Uncomfortable. Painful. Stiles is aware of what Jordan would like to say, that there is a perfectly reasonable explanation for her silence, but Jordan isn’t stupid. He can tell Stiles expects this answer, and he can tell he won’t believe it. “Yeah,” he mutters, closing his eyes, “that’s what I thought.”

“She’ll be back sooner than you think.”

Stiles laughs. A short and bitter sound, clawing its way out of his throat and right through a scream that seems to have been stuck there for far too long. “I can’t do this, Jordan. Not without her.” She’s his sanity in this chaos. Without her, Stiles will drown. Because Lydia doesn’t have a hidden agenda, she doesn’t have some strange loyalty to his dad or a tree. She’s real. She’s in it for  _ him _ , and if she leaves-

Something bangs against the wall to the apartment. Jordan turns towards the door. Stiles stiffens, curls his hands into tight fists. It could be anybody. A neighbor. A visitor. A delivery guy. Yet their lives and the town they’re living in make them both hypervigilant to every sound that’s too loud, too strange, too different for their surroundings.

“What the fuck is going on here?" 

Stiles draws his eyebrows together. That voice sounds very familiar. Isn’t that- 

"Lydia, slow down.  _ Hey- _ ”

The door bursts open. Disheveled, haphazardly dressed, and pale, Lydia flies into the room. Her hand lingers on the doorknob, eyes darting through the room before finding Stiles. For a few heartbeats, she doesn’t move, just stares at him, eyes wide and lips round, an absent fear in her expression. 

“Lydia…”

Jordan gets up the second she moves. “Stiles,” she whispers before collapsing half on top of him, half on top of the couch, and pulls him in a bone-crushing embrace, arms tight around his shoulders and neck. He hugs her close, breathes her in, holds her as a single sob shakes her body, and she buries her face in the crook of his neck. “I was so scared.”

“I’m okay… I’m fine.” Now, more than ever. With her in his arms, with her by his side, breathing gets a little easier again. The air is cleaner. His chest less constricted. Why did he doubt her? This isn’t like him. Not usually. But perhaps, after everything he’s learned last night, after everything he’s learned in the last week, his undying faith has received too much damage, it’s spread too thin across the board. 

Stiles takes another deep breath then kisses her cheek. When the door clicks shut, he looks up. Brett, Isaac, and Theo have returned. No, they never  _ left _ . Have they been waiting in the hallway in front of the apartment? What-  _ why _ ? But additionally, he finds Natalie standing at the kitchen counter, a smile on her lips, and a hand pressed to her chest. However, she doesn’t keep his attention for long. Next to her, Jackson watches the scene in front of him with crossed arms and raised brows. Danny, standing on his right, squints a little. They both look exactly the same. As if they never left.

“What are you doing here?” Stiles asks, carefully freeing himself from Lydia’s embrace. 

Danny runs his hand through his hair. “We heard you guys are up to your throat in some serious shit, so we came to help.” They came to help.  _ Help _ ? They came all the way from London to this helltown to help. He can’t believe it. 

“Yeah, but before we start playing catch up,” Jackson says, leaning against the door with his ankles crossed, and jabs a finger in Brett’s general direction, “can somebody tell me what that waste of space is doing here?”

Isaac rolls his eyes. “Is there someone you haven’t pissed off?”

“He’s a sore loser,” Brett simply replies, pushing his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants with a smirk. 

Lydia ignores them. “Are you okay? Where’s Donovan? I-”

“I’m- I’m fine.” Stiles draws his eyebrows together. How does she know about Donovan? She didn’t read a single one of his texts, and even if she did, he never mentioned Donovan or what happened specifically. He only asked her to call him, that it’s urgent, and he needs to talk to her. 

She grabs his hand. “When Theo called me-”

“When  _ who  _ called you?” Stiles blinks and turns to look at Theo, finds him standing a bit to the side, his arms folded firmly, almost protectively over his chest.  _ He _ called her? Theo called Lydia for him? Why would he do that? 

Lydia glances at Theo. “He didn’t tell you?” 

“No,” Stiles mutters slowly, unable to look away from Theo, “he didn’t.” That’s so unlike him. Bragging about it, using it to get the upper hand, that’s something Stiles would’ve expected him to do. But he didn’t, and Stiles has no fucking clue what to make of that. 

Squeezing his hand, Lydia scoots closer. 

Jackson points at the coffee pot. “Is there any left? We drove the whole night.” Without waiting for an answer, he pushes off the door and makes himself familiar with the contents of the cabinets, probably looking for mugs, acting like he owns the place. Good to know that some things never really change.

With a sigh, Jordan turns to look at Stiles. “You’re still grounded, and you-” he points at Theo, eyes narrowed “-should be very careful. I might still shoot you.” 

Trying to hide a grin, Stiles witnesses multiple responses wash over Theo’s expression as clear as day. From angry to petulant, from petulant to cocky, from cocky to apologetic. Eventually, he frowns at Jordan, decides not to say a single word, which is probably the best course of action, and glances at Stiles. For a split second, he smiles, then his features harden again, and he turns away, watching Jackson roam around the kitchen.

Isaac flops onto the couch, and Brett sits down between them. They both watch him with a raised brow and a grin. 

Stiles glares at them. “I hate you both so much.” 

“Keep telling yourself that, mate,” Isaac says, crossing his arms behind his head.

Lydia chuckles quietly and leans her head against his shoulder. This is going to be a long day, but right now, Stiles couldn’t care less. 


	26. a devil crept in

"Fantastic, now that we've caught up on all the reasons I should've stayed in London, tell me something good," Jackson says, plucking a few chips out of the bag Danny offers him. "How's the lacrosse team doing?" Yes, of course. The only good news coming out of Beacon Hills would be them succeeding at lacrosse. He's going to have a rude awakening.

Brett snorts out a laugh. But it seems like karma has it out for all of them at the moment. The laugh turns into a violent cough when he chokes on his very own spit. His cheeks flush, hopefully with both embarrassment as well as from the coughing, and he leans forward. Worrying about him potentially choking to death isn’t exactly high on anyone’s agenda after he flicks Isaac off, who, to be fair, doesn’t do anything to hide his own amusement. 

With a smile, Stiles pats Brett’s head. “Karma’s a bitch.” 

Promptly Brett flips him the bird as well. 

Lydia chuckles, Jackson snorts, and Theo shifts in front of the couch. His shoulder bumps against Stiles' leg, and he frowns, scrolling through his phone for what seems like nothing in particular. He's been disconcertingly quiet since he was allowed to re-enter and subsequently stay inside the flat. Stiles doubts it has anything to do with Jordan asking for peace and quiet so he can get some sleep before his night shift. Instead, it feels as if he's observing from his spot in front of the couch next to Stiles' legs, assessing what Danny and Jackson's return might mean for his plans.

"Is he saying you're getting your ass kicked?" Danny stares at them. "You have two werewolves and a kitsune on your team."

"How do you  _ suck  _ so bad?" Jackson adds in disbelief. 

"It's a talent," Brett says between coughing and trying to catch his breath. 

Stiles nudges him with his elbow. "This is why people don't like you."

"Ever thought about how much saying that might hurt me?" Brett asks, with a lot less coughing and a terrible imitation of a sad expression on his face. It's so bad it wouldn't even get a pass in an amateur porn video. "I have feelings too." 

Isaac snorts and glances at Stiles over Brett's head, a single eyebrow quirked. They're not too different, the three of them. Burying their feelings is what they've mastered. They shove them into the bottom drawer and throw so much meaningless crap on top there's not a chance in hell anyone ever gets a peek at them unless the whole drawer explodes. It will. Eventually, it always does. Because there's only so much space. Isaac has been there. To Stiles, it happened last night. He wonders if Brett has reached the point of  _ too much  _ as well already, or if he's better at keeping a balance. Stiles wants to be there when it happens, partly because he's curious how a Brett looks that can't keep his zen any longer, but mostly because he knows how to handle what comes after. 

"Look at them," Jackson drawls in a tone that's more annoyed than amused, "the good, the bad, and the dirty." With a disapproving tsks, he shakes his head. "You leave for a day-" this is directed at Lydia, and his expression softens even though his words are no less bitter "-and Stiles falls for pretty faces and a prep school uniform." Jackson's gaze cuts back to Stiles, scowl deepening. "After your crush on Lydia, I thought you had good taste in people, if not fashion." His lips twitch, almost as if he's trying to soften the blow. Maybe because Lydia asked him to, maybe because he genuinely doesn't want to start a fight the first time they meet after everything that went down. 

But the insult isn't directed at Stiles anyway, so it's not like he's going to be butthurt over it. And even if, he heard worse. Before he can reply, however, Danny says, "you need to move on, man."

Lydia pillows her head on Stiles' shoulder, her own moving in a quiet chuckle. 

Theo puts his phone on the ground next to him and shuffles around for a moment. To the others, he seems invisible. To Stiles, he's like a magnet. He's highly aware of his presence, even if he doesn't move. Even if he doesn't touch him at all. But his arm brushes against Stiles' leg. Warmth seeps through his sweatpants, and a finger brushes against his ankle. Another touch that's too random not to be intentional. When Stiles doesn't pull away - and he should, fucking hell, he  _ should -  _ Theo wraps his fingers around Stiles' ankle, thumb slipping under the cuff of his pants, pressing into his skin.

Stiles shudders unintentionally.

"Okay, fuckface," Brett says, pulling the blanket higher over Stiles almost as an afterthought, "let me straighten up. I didn't want to go to fucking Devenford. I don't give a shit about all those pretentious idiots with their Porsche and wannabe-perfect lives." Which would definitely explain why Donovan's friend was surprised when he learned that Brett does have friends. It's entirely possible, he's not close to anybody but his sister and pack. "The only reason I fought tooth and nail for that scholarship wasn't some kind of personal vendetta, I did it for my sister. So, get off my fucking case." For Lori?  _ Huh _ . The more you know.

Lydia shifts a little next to him. "That's very sweet."

"That's called cheating," Jackson mutters, sinking deeper into his chair.

"I don't need to use my werewolf powers to be good at lacrosse," Brett says, and his tone dips into crude amusement when he adds, "I'm a natural."

Stiles rolls his eyes. Part of him wants to chime in and tell Jackson that Brett is right, he really doesn’t need to use his werewolf powers to be amazing at lacrosse, but he doubts it’s a good idea to add fuel to the fire. 

Curling his lips into a grim line, Jackson crosses his arms. “You took my spot.” 

Theo's fingers twitch around Stiles' ankle, his grip tightening for all but a second, still hidden from view behind the blanket. "Taking other people's things is what he's good at." 

Stiles stiffens, and he pulls his leg free and onto the sofa.  _ Things _ . That’s what he is now? Property? An object to be snatched away by whoever pleases? Theo really needs to get his shit together. At this point, Stiles doubts the guy can differentiate between jealousy and greed. Frowning, Stiles hugs both his legs to his chest, not entirely out of Theo’s reach, yet far enough away that resuming what he did would be in clear view of everyone. 

Even without looking at Theo, Stiles can feel the shift in his mood. The tense line of his shoulders, the shadow crossing over his features. He said no again. He said no in front of Brett. Everybody else hardly matters. It's Brett because Theo wants it to be Brett. He stole Stiles from Scott, and he's going to try and steal him again from Brett, and then from whoever comes after, until there is nobody left Stiles could possibly turn to than Theo. 

"I can't take away what doesn't belong to anyone, can I?"  _ There _ . He said it. Out loud. Now, Theo just needs to get it through his thick skull. Yet the tension in the room is palpable, and at least somewhat understandable. Brett didn't do anything. He didn't steal him, he certainly isn't a homewrecker, and it's not like Brett really hit on him - even  _ if  _ he did, Stiles doesn't belong to Theo. He doesn't date him. They shared a single fucking not-kiss, which made everything so much more complicated, and Stiles may perhaps be attracted to him. Maybe. Potentially. Okay,  _ yes _ . Fine. He is. But that doesn't matter. Not right now. Just because Theo did one good thing doesn't mean he can magically be trusted.

For now, it's time to draw new lines. "Well, I recommend you get used to him," Stiles says, looking at nobody in particular, and fidgets with the blanket on his knees, simultaneously wanting to tear and smooth it. 

Brett ruffles his hair. "Aww."

"The same goes for you," Stiles says, slapping his hand away. "Grow up or go home. I have enough shit to deal with, I don't have the nerve for your pissing contest on top of everything, all right?" He's so exhausted. It's just so stupid, so fucking stupid. They're all old enough to have their priorities straight, and yet here they are. 

Lydia pokes him gently in the side. "I know someone who needs some sleep."

"You have no idea how right you are," Stiles admits, leaning his head against hers with a yawn. At this point, he feels like he needs to sleep for a week. At the very least. Having used his powers twice additionally to his healing probably didn’t really help in the long run. 

Isaac stretches. “I’m pretty knackered too.” 

“That probably goes for everyone here,” Danny mutters, tossing a chips into his mouth and the bag to Theo without warning. 

His chimera senses are most definitely the only thing saving him from being smacked in the face. He clears his throat and offers the bag to Stiles. “What about the protective detail?”

Stiles takes the bag and gives it to Isaac. “Donovan is behind bars.”

“You and I both know that’s not going to last long,” Theo says, resting his head against the sofa’s edge to look at him. Although the anger left, his eyes are still hard. “They’ll get him out. Probably sooner than later.” Of course, they do. After all, they keep potential successes around. The guy with the talons arrived with them. Theo followed them around ever since leaving Beacon Hills with his parents. 

Lydia shifts a little, head still resting against Stiles’ shoulder. “What do they need him for?” 

“Dirty work,” Theo replies with a shrug. “Getting rid of bodies or obstacles, distracting the local pack’s genius.” He smiles at Stiles, actually fucking smiles at him as if this is some kind of compliment. Maybe it is, but the petty part of him refuses to accept it. 

Lydia chuckles. 

“That all?” Jackson asks with a snort. 

Theo glances at him. “Not enough for you? Try getting rid of fifteen bodies within a week.”

_ Fifteen bodies _ . Despite knowing that Theo has been turned when he was nine, it never occurred to Stiles that this might not be the Dread Doctors’ first attempts at recreating the success they had with him. They’ve been doing this for years, going from nemeton to nemeton, picking out innocent teenagers who look promising and turning their life into a living hell before each one inevitably dies. Fifteen bodies in a week. The number of people those guys have killed has to be astronomical.

“No wonder you’re so damaged,” Brett says because someone clearly can’t help themselves. 

Stiles shoots him a look, and to his surprise, the werewolf regards his annoyance with a genuinely apologetic smile, even though he doesn’t say anything out loud. Isaac smacks the back of Brett’s head for good measure. 

“My parents did the heavy lifting in that area,” Theo replies, beckoning for the bag of chips without looking at it. 

Isaac drops it in his hand, clearly uncomfortable by the comment. Danny and Jackson exchange a look as well, but ultimately decide not to say anything about it either. In fact, nobody mentions anything because, aside from Danny, they all have some kind of baggage to carry that has something to do with their parents. Brett’s parents are dead. Stiles lost his mother. His father abused alcohol, and he put his work over spending time with Stiles for quite some time. Lydia still struggles with her parents’ nasty divorce. Isaac’s mom died before his dad started abusing him. Jackson never got to know his real parents because they supposedly died in a car crash. The Raekens were the coldest and most disinterested parents Stiles’ has ever had the questionable honor to bump into. 

Maybe that’s why they’re getting along so well. 

More or less.

Jackson scowls and crosses his arms. “I don’t get it. What’s their goal?”

Almost unconcerned, Theo inspects the contents of the bag of chips. “They try to recreate La Bête du Gévaudan."

"Which explains why they need the nemeton for their experiments," Brett says, crossing his arms behind his head with a yawn. 

Everyone looks at him expectantly.

"Are you going to elaborate on that?" Isaac asks, sounding tired of Brett's proclivity to throw tidbits of information around without following it up with details of any sort. Stiles doesn't know Brett for too long, but he strongly agrees with the sentiment.

Brett sighs. "La Bête du Gévaudan is what can happen if you hook a werewolf up to a nemeton and give it too much power." Meaning the werewolf ultimately drowns in its newfound powers, loses their humanity, and kills everything in sight. And Deaton put Beacon Hills at risk by doing the same with Scott. For what? What does he gain from Scott becoming an alpha? Is the nemeton's power that important to him? He already used it anyway. 

"Okay, cool, that explains the nemeton," Isaac says, waving his hand around dismissively, "but how do they go about it? I reckon it's not that easy since the Beast has been dead for over 200 years."

Theo drops the bag of chips next to his legs. "Ever seen Jurassic Park?"

"Cloning?" Lydia wonders.

"Recreating," Stiles corrects, straightening when the realization hits him.

Jackson waves his hand around. “Tomayto, tomahto.” 

“Theo, we need that source.” 

Danny blinks. “What source?”

“I don’t know where they keep it.” Theo shakes his head with a scowl, and Stiles’ hope dwindles. “I don’t even know what their DNA source is.” And with that, it’s completely gone. “It’s their most valued treasure. I wouldn’t be surprised if only The Surgeon knows where it is.” Dead. Buried. Done for. Wonderful. If not even Theo knows what to look for after living with the Dread Doctors for nine years, there’s no chance in hell they are going to find it anytime soon.

_ Fuck _ . 

“Okay,” Brett says, nudging Stiles with his elbow, “can you dial back? I have no fucking clue what you’re talking about.” 

“The Dread Doctors create gaps in a DNA chain by turning genetic chimeras into faux supernaturals,” Lydia explains, having already connected the dots as well. To be fair, Jurassic Park was the hint that hit the nail on the head. “Those are then filled with the DNA of whatever supernatural creature they intend to create.” 

Stiles licks his lips and looks at Theo, who watches him closely, almost as if he’s expecting him to add something. He isn’t wrong. “In order to match the DNA setup of the beast as closely as possible, they hook you up to the nemeton before adding werewolf DNA.” The small smile tugging on Theo’s lips his answer enough. Stiles can feel his heartbeat pick up as excitement pumps through his veins. 

Theo smiles. “That’s about right.” 

“And if the DNA isn’t a match?” Brett asks. 

“Then they add something else,” Theo replies, his tone significantly colder. “I was close, but not close enough, so they turned me into a regular chimera. To this day, I’m their only success.” He doesn’t say it without pride, and to an extent, Stiles agrees that it’s something to be proud of. He survived what others didn’t. It’s a sign of strength. It’s something Stiles definitely can relate to. 

Isaac rains on his parade. “What about Donovan?”

Theo’s grin falters further. Isaac and Brett sure know how to kill his mood in a heartbeat. Maybe that's not such a bad thing. “His numbers were promising. Stiles killed him before they had the chance to receive conclusive results.” 

Crossing his arms over his thighs, Jackson leans forward. “What makes  _ you _ so different?”

"I-"

Stiles’ phone vibrates, and he jolts in surprise as it rattles over the glass table. Both effectively cut Theo off in his reply, but he leans forward and grabs Stiles' phone regardless. "Who's Valerie?" Theo asks, confusion drawing his eyebrows together. 

Is he seriously- Stiles shakes his head. "That's private, asshole." He frees himself from the blanket with minor success. In fact, he almost completely loses his balance if not for Brett's quick reaction. His hands find his stomach and side, and he snorts out a laugh. The guy grew up with werewolves, someone like Stiles must look like a zoo animal to him - one that should be kept somewhere it can’t hurt itself. 

Stiles feels heat creeping up his neck, hating that he still manages to be this clumsy person after all he's been through, after he learned what he’s supposed to become. Clearing his throat, he turns away and grabs his phone, or tries to because Theo holds on to it as if someone glued his hand to its back. "Let go," Stiles snaps, glaring at the chimera for a moment until he realizes that Theo isn't even looking at him. His lips are curled, and his blue eyes remind Stiles of a stormy sea rather than an icy sky. " _ Theo _ ," he says louder this time. 

The chimera looks at him now, expression softening to mild confusion. "Sorry." Letting go of the phone, he leans back against the sofa.

Stiles shakes his head, then answers the call immediately, turning away from everyone. "Hey, Val. Jordan is sleeping, I think he-" 

"Stiles, someone broke into your house."

The house is a mess. A complete and utter mess. Almost every drawer has been turned upside down. Every single room is trashed. From the cellar to the second bathroom upstairs. Nothing was left untouched. By the looks of it, someone broke into the sheriff's house not to steal something, but because of some sort of revenge - and seeing the state of Stiles' bedroom, this was meant to hurt him, not his dad. Whoever broke into his home, they targeted him specifically.

His mattress has been slit open, his bookshelf overturned, and his crime board smashed. His clothes are mostly ruined, as is his collection of movies and video games. His console is intact, but the controller smashed. Pictures and posters have been torn off his wall to make room for the large red letters glaring at him. 

**Next Time**

It’s a promise and a threat. 

“Do you have any idea who could’ve done that?” 

Stiles hates these questions. They’re procedure, he knows; checking in all directions, looking for clues in every corner, it’s mandatory. But it’s most likely because they couldn’t find anything pointing in a particular direction either. “I’m the sheriff’s kid, Martin.” It’s not the first time he’s been threatened. They might be living in a small town, but that doesn't mean they don’t have their fair share of human lunatics, and considering his dad is responsible for the whole county, that makes around half a million people. Who knows how many of them go off when treated, what in their eyes might be, unjust. 

“You know I gotta ask this,” Martin says with a sigh. He’s a fairly new deputy - meaning he came after the nogitsune debacle - and a quite nice guy. Sometimes a bit too nice, but Stiles guesses that’s more lack of experience than a too-soft heart. It’s also entirely possible he doesn’t feel comfortable interrogating his boss’s kid. 

Valerie notices that too. She’s the one having noticed the break-in when she passed through the street to bring home Corey, Josh, and Hayden. Apparently, she saw the door to the house hanging wide open and had a bad feeling about it. Her instincts are on point, it seems like. She raises a hand and places it on Martin’s shoulder. “Think about it,” Valerie says, brushing a strand of hair out of her face - seeing her in street clothes is something to get used to. Stiles remembers how seeing Jordan in jeans and a t-shirt for the first time shook him to the core. He’s aware his dad’s deputies have a life outside their work, it’s still strange to see. Hell, it’s even strange to see his own dad in something other than his uniform. Valerie tips her head to the side and adds, “is there anyone who could have a grudge against you?”

“Have you  _ met  _ me?” Stiles wonders, proving one more time that his mouth is faster than his brain. Valerie quirks her brow, and someone behind him snorts out a laugh. His best guess is either Theo or Brett, and he tries not to grin. “I mean,” Stiles continues, trying to smooth over his slightly passive-aggressive behavior at least a little bit - he really doesn't need Jordan seeing him behave like a dick again, “I just- I don’t know. I’m not friendly with a lot of people, and I’m prone to piss someone off, but this?” He gestures around, frowning slightly, and shakes his head.

Jordan watches him silently, leaning against the windowsill with crossed arms. Although he's, like Valerie, not technically on duty, he searched the house with the other deputies for prints or anything else that could lead them in the direction of whoever did this. But he stayed out of the interrogation and instead remains a quiet observer. It usually wouldn't bother Stiles so much if not for his stony expression. Jordan barely meets his eye, and if he does, he looks positively angry. As if, somehow, Stiles is at fault for this break-in.

Martin purses his lips and stares at his notebook. For a moment, it seems like he contemplates something. He nods, more to himself, and looks up again. “The rivalry between your school’s lacrosse team and Devenford Prep is pretty extreme.”

“What the  _ fuck _ are you insinuating?” Brett asks, stepping forward, and grabs Stiles’ chair. It moves slightly over the floor, barely noticeable to the naked eye. More anger. More fuel. More shit to lock away. Stiles could feel all of it as if they were his very own feelings. 

Valerie raises a hand. “It’s just a question.”

“No, it clearly fucking wasn’t.” 

“Brett,” Isaac warns, and Stiles sees him inch closer out of the corner of his eye.

“It wouldn’t be the first rivalry getting out of hand,” Martin says, and although he sounds unimpressed, that he’s not looking up from his notebook is more than telling. “Considering Brett’s position, maybe some people weren’t all too happy about your developing relationship.”

The stunned silence lasts about a heartbeat. “Our  _ what _ ?” Brett and Stiles ask in unison, but this time, they aren’t in the mood for a fistbump. Why do people think that? Just because they’re both bisexual? Which most people don’t even know about Stiles. He doesn’t exactly hide it, but it’s not like he hawks that around, and he’s not quite as much in the public eye as Brett is. 

Martin pulls out his phone, taps away at it, then shows him a picture - actually, he shows him multiple ones. Stiles getting out of Brett’s car. One of them talking to each other. One of them dancing together. Seems like the only picture that didn’t make it to Instagram is the one of Stiles breaking into the warehouse. 

He glances at Jordan again, who gives a curt shake of his head. So, the police don't know anything about that. Thanks to Jordan and Valerie.  _ Great _ . Maybe he should try to be a bit more cooperative. 

“We’re friends,” Brett says, somehow managing to sound reasonable and not defensive at all. “people need to keep their noses out of my business.” 

Valerie crosses her arms. “That’s very friendly.”

“So,  _ what _ if it is?” Stiles snaps, leaning forward, and gestures in the direction of the phone. So much for being cooperative, but this isn’t going to get them anywhere. He can’t believe he’s wasting time with this bullshit instead of cleaning up his house. Luckily, he doesn’t have to do it alone. Liam and Mason stayed after they came back when Hayden called them. Lydia called Kira too. They’re all sitting in the living room, waiting for Theo, Isaac, Brett, and Stiles to get out of their interrogation. 

Pushing his phone back into the pocket of his uniform, Martin taps a finger against the table. Briefly, Stiles wonders if the others told him something he’s not aware of seeing that they’ve interrogated everyone who was at the party last night. It’s a lead, sure, but it’s also bullshit. “Jealousy is a strong motive.” 

“Jealousy-” Stiles cuts off, shaking his head. Without warning, Tracy comes to mind.  _ Tracy _ . Would she do that? Did she even have the time to do that? She’s a vicious girl, and the amount of destruction in his room points at Stiles as the main target. But-

“Tracy Stewart,” Theo says, crossing his arms over his chest. “She hates Stiles and might have a personal motive.” 

Stiles whips his head around, so does Brett. They both stare at Theo for a moment, but Theo doesn’t look at either of them. Did he  _ really _ just rat out his own pack member without any proof at all? 

Valerie shifts her weight from one foot to the other. “The late lawyer’s daughter?” She looks at Jordan, who briefly nods in affirmation.

“It couldn’t have been her,” Stiles cuts in, not quite sure why he defends her, although he had the same suspicion mere moments ago. Call it instincts, call it whatever. It wasn’t Tracy. It couldn’t have been. “She was with us until around an hour and a half before you called me.” 

Contemplating him in silence, Martin nods after a while. “No. That’s unlikely.” 

Stiles looks over his shoulder, and Theo stares back at him, brows narrowed ever so slightly. He can’t tell if it was a good decision to protect her, but it certainly was the right one. Not only because he doubts Tracy did it. The longer they can keep the supernatural away from the police, the better. 

“That brings us back to-”

“It wasn’t anyone from the Devenford team, okay?” Stiles hardly doubts this has anything to do with lacrosse. It feels a bit too personal for a normal rivalry, especially since Stiles is sitting on the bench most of the time anyway. He wasn’t a star player, and their team sucks enough even  _ if _ they're worried Brett might be distracted during the game, it’s not like they wouldn’t wipe the pitch with them anyway. 

“Then who, Stiles?” Martin asks, now sounding for the first time a bit impatient. “This is personal, there has to be someone.” 

“I don’t-” Stiles stops mid-sentence. “Well, actually… there might be someone.” He swallows and shifts uncomfortably on his chair. The picture of him breaking in. Those pictures of him and Brett. They both feel like a clear attempt to get him in trouble - both with the law and with his lacrosse team. It’s such a childish thing and so fucking human, which makes it hard to think about. He’s had his head wrapped up in the supernatural for so long, mundane problems feel like something that’s out of this world. Swallowing, Stiles rubs his upper arm. “Maybe Donovan’s friends did this. One of them gave me drugs last night.” 

Valerie raises her other brow. Martin follows suit. “Someone gave you drugs?” 

“I didn’t take them,” Stiles says, raising his hands defensively, clearly remembering that he might have done it, if Theo hadn’t come along. “It’s just… the drugs, the pictures, the break-in. Like you said, it’s personal. And I’m responsible for Donovan going back to jail. Maybe he just… snapped.” Not to pigeonhole the dude, but everyone who hangs out with Donovan is probably a few marbles short. 

“You mean drugs like these?” Jordan raises a tiny transparent bag with little pink pills. And where, pray tell, did he find them? 

Stiles swallows. “Yeah. Like those.” 

As if someone released all the air from his body, Jordan almost leans forward, a hand pressed to his forehead.  _ Oh.  _ Did the police find the drugs somewhere in his bedroom? That would explain why Jordan was so tense and looked about ready to yell at him. Again. Stiles can't believe that fuckface from the party left drugs at his place. 

Valerie pats Martin’s shoulder. “Guess we got our culprit.” 

The question of something being stolen isn't quite as easy to answer as he thought it is going to be. Looking closer, the whole house proves to be in a much worse condition than previously anticipated. His feet immediately carried him to his father's bedroom, and he tore open the bottom drawer to check if his mom's jewelry remained where it's supposed to be. Luckily, that is still untouched, and he sat there, hugging it to his chest until Lydia found him like that. Smiling softly, she wiped a tear off his cheek and wrapped her arms around him. They didn't speak, but they didn't need to, Stiles didn't even want to. 

After that, they cleaned his room as much as they could at this point. Actually, they ended up throwing more shit away than they put back, which wasn't quite as disheartening as he thought it would end up being. The most frustrating thing was the wallpaper and the mattress. When they were done, Stiles checked every room, but couldn't find anything being stolen. By the time they went downstairs to the living room, so Stiles could sort through the papers flying about everywhere and sort them back into their respective ring binders, it was long past three in the afternoon. 

Stiles is hungry, exhausted, and he’s fighting the urge to hit something. He almost did when he went to the bathroom earlier, but even with his supernatural healing, that’s probably not one of his greater ideas. He broke a mirror last night. Seven years of bad luck are enough for one person - and if it’s his kind of bad luck, seven days feel like a lifetime. He’s not going to survive seven years of this shit. 

“Hey,” Kira crouches down next to him, “do you need any help with that?” 

Brett and Isaac follow her into the room, simultaneously collapsing onto the sofa. Looks like they’re done with the cellar. The fucking cellar. They really didn’t leave a single room in his house untouched. Stiles can’t decide if he should be impressed by their dedication or seriously pissed off. There's so much shit they have to replace. Sure, they  _ can  _ replace it, and most things of value, of which they don't have many, have been hidden well enough that they couldn't find them. 

Stiles shakes his head. “Do you know when Jordan will be back with the food?” 

“Hopefully soon,” Lydia mutters. 

Humming his agreement, Isaac turns his head to look at him. “We found some adorable baby pictures of you, by the way.” 

“Yes,” Kira says, holding a picture in front of his face. “I put it in a frame… I hope you don’t mind.” 

Stiles licks his lips and grabs the frame, dropping the stack of unsorted papers in his lap. “I haven’t seen this in forever.” It’s one of his favorite pictures, not only because it’s one of the few he has with his mom before she got ill. His grandmother shot the picture when they visited her and his grandfather in Poland. Stiles doesn’t even know how old he was in the picture. Maybe two. Definitely not older. He could already walk on his own because he was standing partially wrapped up in his grandmother’s see-through curtains. Apparently, that used to be his favorite place. Stiles is pretty sure he was a big fan of the French windows, and the curtains were in his way. “Thanks,” he mutters belatedly, running his thumb along the figure of his mother, kneeling in front of him. 

With a smile, Kira gives him a short hug then gets up to squeeze herself next to Lydia, who promptly uses her as a pillow, in the armchair. 

"Is it the one where he's naked?" Brett asks.

"Bloody hell."

"No, it's cute."

"That he's naked?"

"That who is naked?" 

Stiles quickly places the picture upside-down in front of him. The last person who needs to see it is Theo or one of his goons. Picking up the papers again, he briefly scans the top one. Insurance. Good. He places it on the stack to the far left, trying to ignore Theo sitting down right behind him. Close enough that his thigh nudges the small of his back. 

Brett crosses his legs on the table. "None of your business." 

Stiles can practically hear Isaac rolling his eyes. 

"When is Parrish back with food?" Josh asks, collapsing half on top of Corey as the two of them squeeze into the second armchair. 

"Good point," Jackson agrees, dragging two chairs with him into the living room, followed by Danny, Liam, Mason, and Hayden. The three latter squeeze onto the sofa as well, Hayden sitting on Liam's lap, curling a strand of hair around her index finger. Looks like the house is cleared as much as possible, and the only thing separating Stiles from falling into bed are those papers in his hands as well as a visit at the hospital. His dad wants to see him. 

Stiles can't wait for another lecture after his dad made sure he's fine.

“Let’s hope he brings food this time,” Brett mumbles.

Lydia yawns. “Don’t call it.” 

Stiles places a bill on the stack in the middle - his dad definitely needs to sort through all his papers when he’s back home, some of these bills are older than Stiles - and unfolds a piece of paper he hasn't noticed before. “Brett wants trouble,” he says, scanning the text and drawing his eyebrows together, “he’s bor-” His gaze catches on two handwritten words. 

Scratch that. Not words. It’s a name. Peter Hale. Why is Peter’s name written on the letter of a lawyer? And what does his dad have to do with a fucking lawyer? This doesn’t make any sense. Narrowing his eyes, Stiles reads the letter again, slower this time. It talks about some kind of payment that’s not bound to any demands. Why would an Italian fashion company pay his dad any money? And  _ how _ much money? Stiles checks the back of the paper, but that’s empty. The only thing his dad has written down is Peter’s name.

Why? What does Peter have to do with any of this? Maybe it's completely unrelated, but that doesn't make any sense either. His dad doesn't scribble on what seems to be important mail. 

Stiles drags his teeth over his bottom lip.

“Is everything okay?” Isaac asks, leaning forward and crosses his arms over his thighs. “You’re kinda stressed.”

Theo looks over his shoulder. “Who’s Peter Hale?” 

“Piss  _ off _ ,” Stiles hisses, trying to push him away, but he freezes when he sees the date in the top corner of the letter. That’s shortly after someone paid his mother’s hospital and Stiles’ bills for his stay at Eichen. “Are you-” instead of pushing Theo away, he uses his shoulder to get to his feet, legs slightly wobbly from exhaustion and the bullshit thrown in his face, eyes still glued to the paper “-fucking kidding me?” That’s a joke, right? This has to be a fucking joke. Peter Hale did not use some fucking company to pay their bills, and if he did, he certainly hasn’t done it out of the good of his heart. Not Peter. Never Peter. Especially not a Peter Hale who is currently locked away in Eichen House himself. 

“Stiles,” Lydia says, sitting up straight, “what’s going on?” 

He shakes his head in disbelief. “Remember when I told you someone paid our bills?” 

She nods, eyebrows drawn together. Only a moment later, she gasps. 

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees, “that someone is Peter Hale.” 


	27. on the come up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember how the chapters were 4-5k? Good times, but we double that sh*t now. This chapter is 10.5k words in length, and that's probably going to be the norm from now on. I know that's not everyone's cuppa. I apologise, but I still have a lot planned for this fic, so I gotta lengthen the chapters. Otherwise, the fic will drag on and on. 
> 
> So, yeah. Thanks for all the kudos and comments and bookmarks and everything! Love you guys! Smooches all around! <3
> 
> Now, then, grab a snack, your favourite beverage and have fun! See you at the end... hopefully. ;)

“What the  _ fuck _ , Dad?” Stiles asks in lieu of a greeting. He slams the letter on the little table next to his hospital bed. The glass rattles against the water bottle. His palm stings from the impact. "Peter Hale? You take money from  _ Peter Hale _ ?" There is a lot he would like to add, mostly asking if his dad suffered from dwindling sanity. Still, even he realizes that would be in poor taste, so he allows Theo to pull him back by his upper arm before that pisses him off too, and he slaps his hand away. He told him to wait in the car, but it's not like Theo listens to him.  _ Ever _ .

His dad considers him like he always does when confronted with one of his tantrums; a quiet, steady expression that is nowhere here nor there. His sheriff facade. Being too soft would make Stiles blow up, being too strict would make him only more defiant. "Kiddo," he says in a tone that is somehow both stern and understanding, "I didn't know the money came from Peter Hale."

Biting away a scoff, Stiles crosses his arms. "A random Italian fashion company pays for our bills, and you just  _ let them _ ?" He didn't let them. Stiles knows he didn't. His dad investigated, hence the lawyer's letter.  _ And yet _ . The anger sits on an oil spill. It has been sitting there for a while, constantly threatening to slosh over. But now it's more like whatever used to protect his anger is held together with cheap glue and rips open by the smallest of disturbances. 

“I did not.” There’s a sharpness in his dad’s voice that hasn’t been there before, and he sits up a bit further, forcing the pillows to comply with his elbow. “They refused to reverse the money. I contacted our lawyer to see if there’s a way to force their hand.” But there wasn’t. Peter made sure of that. “After I learned that, I tried to contact the owner of the company, but as you figured out, that was a dead-end too.”

Stiles runs his fingers through his hair. “Why didn’t you tell me?” He can't believe he didn't mention anything. It's Peter Hale. The guy comes with bad news attached to his hip.

“Because you don’t need to know everything.”

“I do,” Stiles all but yells, unable to help himself, to calm whatever storm catches up to him, “especially if it’s Peter fucking Hale. Do you think he did this out of the kindness of his heart?” Taking a breath, he starts pacing the room to direct his energy somewhere that isn't his anger. It's not working as well as he would've preferred. “He’ll expect something in return.” People like Peter always do. 

“Don’t you think he would’ve told us by now?” 

Stiles runs a hand over his face. “No, he’ll wait for the right moment.” But Stiles is done reacting, he wants to be the one with the upper hand for once. Just this once. Because whatever Peter has planned, it’s not going to be good. “I have to talk to him.” Preferably now. 

“That’s out of the question,” his dad replies, sitting up straighter. “Every time you set foot into that place, something happens.” And by something, he probably means being mistreated by the orderlies, being kidnapped and locked in the cellar. Not to forget their near encounter with the Dread Doctors. It’s not a safe place, and with his history, he’ll probably have a rather hard time getting inside again - unless he calls in a little favor himself. After all, he and Lydia helped Valack out of his cell. Well, technically, it was just Lydia’s scream, but he’ll work something out. In case of an emergency, he’ll brute force his way in there. It’s probably not exactly easy to get into the supernatural wing, however, much less getting out. It’s probably better if nobody figures out what’s going on with him, or he might end up in a cell himself. Which, seeing how the last even days got progressively worse, it wouldn’t be particularly surprising. 

Running his hands through his hair, Stiles sits down on the edge of the bed. Every fiber of his body wants him to curl into a ball next to his dad. He wants to hide from the world for a while, to get some rest, to get some strength. But he knows the second he allows himself to rest, something will happen. 

“I’m not trying to piss you off,” his dad notes in a quiet tone. “Life has it out for you. I want to see you survive.”

Stiles lets out a breath. “We gotta know what Peter wants.” Rather sooner than later. Despite Peter being Peter, he's sure that's the easiest problem to solve. After all, he's still locked away in Eichen. What's the worst he could do?

The mattress moves when his dad shifts. “Then wait until I’m-”

“I won’t take you in there with me.” 

“And you’re not going alone, or you will be grounded for the rest of your life instead of next weekend.”  _ Okay _ . That message is clear. His dad agrees wholeheartedly with Jordan, and the wiggle room is none existent.  _ Gotcha _ .

Stiles purses his lips. When it comes to keeping each other safe, they are equally stubborn. This conversation will be going in circles until one of them finds a solution that benefits them both or until Stiles goes home and does it anyway. But Stiles is really over getting into trouble with his dad and Jordan on top of everything else. All of his behavior led to Jordan thinking Stiles keeps drugs in his room. So, he needs a solution that satisfies his dad and allows him to do it without him. He could take Lydia again, but she and Peter have an iffy relationship, and he rather not put her through that encounter. Mason doesn’t feel like a viable option either. He’ll probably get lost in his own curiosity. Danny? Maybe. Danny could be-

There are a crash and a curse. Theo jumps away from the broken vase at his feet. 

Stiles frowns. His expression of frustration seems genuine, although being clumsy isn’t exactly on brand. Then again, Theo’s been awake as long as Stiles has. Even chimeras need their precious beauty sleep every once in a while. 

When Theo crouches down to pick up the shards and flowers, Stiles turns back to his father, who studies his face, knitting his eyebrows. He’s not too big a fan of that expression, so he chooses to ignore it. “Dad,” he begins, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hands, “I-” he stops, blinks, and turns to Theo again. Of  _ course _ . “I can take him.” 

His dad’s eyebrows shoot up. “Him? I thought a supernatural can’t go down there.” 

“Theo can.”

“I can do what?” Theo asks, rising to his feet with glass shards in his left hand. 

Stiles rolls his eyes. “You can get into Eichen.” 

“Oh.” Theo crosses the room and tosses the shards in the bin by the door. “Oh, yeah. I can get in.” He nods, wiping his hands on his jeans, and crosses his arms over his chest. It’s hard to tell if he is that confused or if all of that is just an act. Maybe he threw the vase to the ground to capture Stiles’ attention. He wouldn’t put it past him. But that doesn’t matter now. Theo is his only option to get fair and square into Eichen without having to take his dad. Although Peter meeting Theo is really the last thing he wants to happen. 

That statement doesn’t do anything to put his dad’s concerns to rest. “And you trust him?”

Theo raises his brows, the smallest of smirk curling around his lips. Oh, fuck. Stiles maneuvered himself into a very nasty corner. If he says yes, he’ll lie to his dad, and Theo will never let that go. If he says no, there’s no way in hell his dad allows him to visit Peter without him. He’ll have to find a decent middle ground. Luckily, that’s not too hard. “I trust he knows exactly what’s good for him,” Stiles says, feeling a strange sense of satisfaction as Theo’s smirk falters. “I’m the one keeping him alive.” 

His father studies his face for a moment, then nods and turns to look at Theo. "Could you leave us for a moment?" 

Curling his lips, the chimera gives a curt nod. It's clear that he doesn't want to leave; after all, he didn't listen to Stiles when he told him to stay in the car. But he plays along to his dad's request, and Stiles isn't going to complain. He's been around Theo for hours, being separated from him isn't going to kill him. Although he knows what'll follow. 

"Dad, listen-" he starts before his dad even has the chance, but he's immediately interrupted. 

"Are you okay?" 

Parting his lips, he looks at his father, ready to throw back 'I'm fine' because it's an automatic response, because it's the response he knows he should give him since he's still at the hospital and all. But his mouth refuses to work. The words refuse to push past his lips. He swallows, looks at his own hands, and gives a shake of his head. 

The mattress moves as his dad makes as much room as possible and pats the now empty space next to him. Stiles doesn't waste a second. Only partially feeling like a little kid again, he crawls into bed and closes his eyes when his dad places a hand on his shoulder. 

"I'm worried about you, Kiddo."

Stiles smiles. "You don't have to be. I can heal now."

"It's your mind that worries me," his dad says, squeezing his arm gently. "I'm aware of the places it can go." His words are followed by a heavy silence, and Stiles squeezes his eyes shut, presses his lips together, and takes a deep breath through his nose. It's fine. He is fine. Everything is going to turn out okay. 

Not quite trusting his words, Stiles tries to be reassuring. "I'm okay, Dad."

"I don't think you are," he replies, and he almost sounds like he doesn't want to say it because saying it would drag it from his head into reality. "Somebody broke into our house. Donovan almost killed you, and you waltz in here asking me questions about Peter Hale. I  _ know  _ you, Kiddo. This is not you doing okay." His tone dances somewhere between angry and desperate. His grip tightens, just a little, and for a brief second, Stiles is terrified that when he opens his eyes, he's going to see his father cry because this is finally too much. 

But his dad remains quiet.

So does Stiles.

"Fine." The anger is firmer now, more rooted in his voice than it was before. "If you don't talk to me, I will find you someone else to talk to." 

Stiles knows what that means, and he wonders if, after everything that happened, he should talk to a counselor or a psychiatrist. He probably should've done this after the whole nogitsune disaster. But  _ what _ exactly is he supposed to tell them? If he tells them the truth, ninety-nine out of a hundred psychiatrists are going to send him straight to a mental institution. If he doesn't tell them the truth, they can't help him. And he's not going to talk to Morell after she told him straight up that she's cool with killing him. Well, there is Natalie, but he's not sure he could be honest with her.

"Kiddo-"

"I can't keep reacting to things," Stiles says quietly, curling his hand into a fist against his stomach. "Ever since Scott was bitten, we are reacting to the shit thrown at us. Teenagers are dying, and all I can do is find the bodies. Someone broke into our home, and all I can do is guess who it might have been. Donovan tried to kidnap me, and all I could do is hope that someone saves me because I'm too weak to defend myself." Taking a deep breath, he squeezes his eyes shut. When he continues, he sounds a lot more breathless than he hoped he would. "I need to act. I need to get control back, at least a little, and with Peter- I can solve this, Dad. Let me solve this one thing before it blows up in our faces." 

His father doesn't immediately respond, but after a while, his grip loosens. "I let you go," he agrees, "but only under one condition."

"What's that?"

"No more secrets. I will be upfront with you from now on, but I expect the same from you."

Stiles swallows, but he nods. Okay.  _ Okay _ .

"Good." His dad squeezes his arm once, then relaxes into the pillows. "How are you really feeling?" Right to the nitty-gritty. That's how Stiles knows him.

"On edge, stressed out' confused," Stiles says, the truth slipping past his lips way easier than he could've hoped for, "but mostly, I'm so fucking tired." He would kill for being small again, for his dad to tuck him in, and all Stiles had to worry about was trying to fall asleep - not because he was constantly expecting something bad to happen, but because his mind was going a hundred miles an hour in four different directions.

His dad chuckles quietly. "Then get some rest, kiddo. The city will still be standing when you wake up." 

Stiles sincerely hoped he was right about that.

“It’s green.”

“What?”

“The traffic light,” Stiles says, briefly gesturing towards the windscreen, “it’s not gonna get any greener.” Stifling a yawn, he leans his head back against the window and closes his eyes. Although tired, he’s too wary of his surroundings to let himself fall asleep. Even when he was little and in the car with his parents, Stiles never managed to drift off to sleep. Something about moving around and out in the open. This time, the driver only adds to his restlessness.

Theo glances at him. “I was distracted by my passenger,” he says with a slight smirk on his lips. 

Oh,  _ god _ . “Really?”

His lips part for a reply that’s most definitely worse than what he already said, but instead of saying something, Theo shifts into bottom gear and promptly stalls the car. 

Stiles squints at him.

Pretending as if nothing happened, Theo twists the keys again, and his truck comes back to life with a rumble. The car jerks forward a little. For a second, Stiles is sure Theo is going to stall the car again, but eventually, he makes it across the crossroads. Glancing at him out of the corner of his eyes, Theo scowls for a moment. 

“Please, don’t crash the car,” Stiles mumbles, shifting a bit in the passenger’s seat so he can look at Theo better - just in case the guy is going to fall asleep while driving. 

Theo’s frown deepens for a second. “Why would I crash the car?” 

“Why did you throw the vase off the table?” Stiles shoots back, sinking as deep into the seat as the seat belt allows him. Although Theo looked like he napped while waiting for Stiles, the bags under his eyes have grown in size. It’s not that surprising. After all, Theo has slept about as much as Stiles has. Maybe even less if Stiles counts the two to three hours he was passed out on the couch. 

Shifting gears, Theo glances at him out of the corner of his eyes once then twice. It takes almost a whole minute until he seems to have convinced his features to morph into his slightly condescending and smug expression that’s usually stapled to his face whenever he thinks he either has the upper hand or hit the mother load. “You don’t have to worry about me, Stiles.”

He scoffs. “Oh, I don’t. Trust me.” Shaking his head, Stiles turns away again, staring out the window and at the trees and houses rushing past. It’s clearly a lie. Part of him does care about Theo, even if he rather not. He can’t help it. This stupid chimera somehow managed to carve a place into his consciousness like an aching headache - annoying when around, but its absence almost as prominent. But when he remembers Theo collapsing, when he remembers how he didn’t move for a while, Stiles’ chest hurts as if someone rammed a knife through his heart. 

Not that he’s ever going to admit that.

The silence is too heavy this time around, and the memory of Theo lying on the ground, unmoving, naked and vulnerable, mixes with his father bleeding out inside the school. Stiles shifts in the passenger’s seat and rolls his shoulders as if that could help get rid of the uncomfortable tightness in his chest. He reaches for the radio, flicks it on and leans back again, crossing his arms. The weather forecast isn’t exactly what he hoped for. 

Theo looks at him for a moment, gaze heavy on the side of his face.

Stiles bites the inside of his cheek. The obnoxiously cheery voice of the announcer grinds his gears within seconds. He’s too tired for this bullshit. Huffing out a breath, Stiles reaches for the radio again and turns it off. The silence may still be heavy, but he can handle that better than terrible jokes on the radio.

Again, Stiles notices Theo's gaze dragging over the side of his face. He wishes he wouldn't. He really does. Being this attuned to everything Theo says or does is driving him insane. Trying his best to ignore him, Stiles worries his bottom lip and stares out the window. The sun has mostly set, so he sees Theo's reflection just as well as he sees the houses and trees rushing past. But he's steady. A stoic presence in his life that Stiles cannot get rid of, no matter how much he tries to. 

It's infuriating. 

When they finally arrive at the apartment complex, Stiles notices that Jordan hasn't returned yet. Great. Just  _ great _ . Despite knowing that Donovan is locked up, being alone fills him with a sort of unease. Something Theo almost immediately picks up on. "Want me to come upstairs with you?" he asks with the type of grin that's not doing Theo any favors. "We could both use a nap. I'll even tuck you in, if you like."

"Oh, screw you, Theo." 

He laughs quietly, a soft sound Stiles wishes he'd allow to slip out more often than his stupid smug smirks. "I'm just saying," Theo whispers, eyes dropping to Stiles' hand, and he grabs it before he even has the chance to pull it away, much less get out of the car, "if you want me to stay, I will. Just say the word."

Stiles parts his lips, ready to tell Theo to fuck off, to go, to leave him the hell alone. But the words are piling up in his throat, just underneath his heart trying to escape through his mouth. He doesn't want to be alone with Theo any longer, but he doesn't want to be all by himself either. 

Running his thumb over the back of Stiles' hand, Theo smiles. 

_ Say no. Say- _

Someone honks, and Stiles almost jolts out of the passenger's seat. Theo, startled as well, lets go of his hand and turns to the offending vehicle. It's Jordan, who gestures for Theo to move. 

Stiles has never been so happy for the guy to come back home, but he clearly can't say the same for Theo, who looks murderous. That probably is his cue to leave. Without hesitating, Stiles scrambles out of the car and slams the door shut. Crossing his arms firmly over his chest, he forces himself to look anywhere but the black truck reversing. 

What he needs is distance.

Desperately.

Jordan wasn’t exactly happy about the sheriff allowing him to go to Eichen House to confront Peter. Which he told Stiles. Multiple times. In great detail. He also checked up on him on a regular basis during his nightshift. Since Donovan was still locked down, Stiles was aware that Jordan did it because he didn’t trust he would stay home like he promised. It’s a fair reaction. Stiles didn’t give Jordan any reason to trust his word after that disastrous weekend, and he made it clear that it’ll take some time. Stiles gets it, he really does. He doesn’t expect Jordan to forgive him just like that. After all, he fucked up royally, and he deserves it. 

Seeing how pissed off at him he is, Stiles is all the more surprised when Jordan allows him to stay out of school. Stiles rarely leaves the bed. He sleeps for the most time, his exhaustion made from a weird cocktail of emotions wearing him down as well as general fatigue. He wonders if it has anything to do with using his powers. He wonders if it's something else. 

And he's not the only one wondering if his current situation has something to do with the nemeton. 

Around three pm, Jordan knocks on the door. "Brett and Satomi are here." 

Stiles nods and rolls out of bed. He pulls on a pair of socks and leaves the bedroom in sweatpants and a worn t-shirt only to promptly feel very underdressed, seeing Brett lounging about in his prep-school uniform. The werewolf smirks at him, and Stiles crosses his arms over his chest. "Hey," he says, not quite sure how to properly address Satomi. She still scares him. "Thanks for coming." 

Satomi smiles. “Deputy Parrish informed us that you’re not feeling well.” 

“Yeah,” Stiles replies, fiddling with the hem of his shirt, “I’m exhausted.” 

Jordan places a cup of tea in front of Satomi and sits down at the dining table, folding his hands in front of him. His jaw is a tense line as he watches Stiles before turning back to Satomi. “Is that normal?” 

“Totally,” Brett informs them from the sofa, tugging his tie loose, “he healed twice from pretty severe shit and used his powers. His batteries are drained as fuck.” There’s something attractive about the way, he pulls the tie off completely and drops it onto the couch. 

Stiles licks his lips and forces himself to look away. Note to self, when he’s this exhausted, he shouldn’t hang around hot people. “Shouldn’t I have recharged by now?”

“That depends on how in-tune you are with the ley lines,” Satomi responds, adding sugar to her tea. 

“In tune?” he echoes. That happens automatically. At least, that’s what he thought, or rather, it’s what he hoped. He doesn’t have the energy to learn that too. Actually, he doesn’t have the energy to do anything, really. 

Satomi nods. “You need to establish a connection with the ley lines in order to control, access, and conduct the power. You are the nemeton’s vessel. You are the  _ beacon _ .” Oh, that sounds just wonderful. Exactly what he needs. The nemeton attracted supernatural creatures, no? Is he going to attract supernatural creatures now too? So much for an average college experience.  _ Yay _ . 

With a huff, Stiles turns away from her and trots towards the couch. He collapses next to Brett, who pulls his sleeveless sweater over his head with a grin. “Hey,” he says, wiggling his brows, and bends down to put his sweater vest in his gym bag. 

“Hi,” Stiles mutters, slumping against the backrest. 

“Have you ever wondered why you are drawn to Brett?” Satomi asks out of the blue, tapping her spoon against the rim of her cup with a grating clinking sound. 

At first glance, it seems like Jordan merely raises a brow, but the tight curl of his lips tells an entirely different story. If that train of thought isn’t rerouted really quick, Stiles will be in a rather awkward position later on. The last thing he needs is a conversation about a potential love or sex life he doesn’t have. Especially since it could - and very likely will - lead to the not-kiss he had with Theo. And if Jordan isn’t particularly fond of a potential, yet very non-existent, relationship with Brett, Stiles really doesn’t want to know what Jordan thinks about Theo being intimate with him. Not that Jordan has any say in this. But he can make dating someone extremely complicated. Not that Stiles is pursuing any kind of relationship. He has his hands full with his friendships and Beacon Hill’s impending doom. 

And Theo. He has worked his way into the heap of problems piling up as well. To be fair, Stiles is both surprised and glad Theo isn't here right now. Usually, this would be a situation Theo would somehow manage to participate in, seeing he did the same during the initial talk with Satomi and Noshiko. Stiles wonders what he's up to. Aside from a text asking him why he's not at school, which Stiles didn't respond to, Theo has been disconcertingly quiet. But it's a good thing this conversation happens without Theo and his unconstructive growls and comments. If he really is jealous - a very big if - this lesson would not go over well. 

Shaking off the thoughts, Theo isn't here, so his kind doesn't need to be occupied with him, Stiles clears his throat. “I’m not drawn to him. We’re friends but-”

Brett barks out a laugh, even Satomi chuckles. “I’m not speaking about an intimate relationship, although that certainly would make things less complicated.” She’s kidding, right? Oh, god. Please, let her be kidding. 

“You’re blushing.” 

Stiles elbows Brett in the ribs, regretting the decision instantly as pain zaps up his arm. 

“As he probably told you,” Satomi continues unfazed, “the nemeton allows the alpha and, depending on the size of the pack, a few of the betas access to the ley lines to-”

“To know if other packs or werewolves entered your territory,” Stiles interrupts, then ducks his head as he realizes what he just did. “Sorry.” Satomi is the last person he wants to be rude too. Not only because he’s kind of scared shitless. Something about her screams alpha, and showing her any kind of disrespect doesn't sit right with him. But on top of that, she willingly helps him. She comes when Jordan calls because Stiles feels like crap. 

Satomi nods briefly, the hint of a smile dancing around the corners of her mouth. "Correct." Sipping on her tea, she studies Stiles for a moment. Her eyes are sharp, and her attention unwavering. It feels as if she can look right through him. “Brett is one extension of the ley line until the nemeton cuts him off.” Meaning, until Stiles cuts him off. Which is most definitely not going to happen anytime soon. The nemeton must’ve had a reason to give him access. He’s not going to walk all over that decision. 

Licking his lips, Stiles rubs his right eyebrow. “So, he’s  _ part _ of the ley line.”  _ Wait _ . Theo is connected to the nemeton as well, as are all the other chimeras. Does that mean whatever he feels for Theo is because of the nemeton, and it’s only heightened because he finds him attractive in the first place? That’s not what that is. Right?  _ Oh god _ . Or maybe, that’s a good thing? It would explain everything. 

“Yup,” Brett says, popping the p and crossing his arms behind his back. 

“So,” Stiles continues, glancing from Satomi to Brett and back again, “I can access the ley lines through him.” Could he access the ley lines through Theo as well? Or any other chimera? 

“You are a fast learner.” 

“I’ve been told,” Stiles replies, his response automatic. Again, he ducks his head, pressing the balls of his hands to his eyes. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to-”

“A tired mind is a good enough excuse for me,” Satomi says, “and don’t worry. I’ve heard worse.” Her eyes flick to Brett, whose grin widens, not even a bit ashamed of his behavior. Still, their relationship differs vastly from Stiles and Satomi's. Mainly because it's basically non-existing, while Brett is raised by her. It's normal to look differently at those you call family. Not that it's always better. His dad pitied him instead of setting his head straight like he should have done during his visit. Jordan doesn't because, although they may consider each other family, their relationship isn't quite the same. Jordan did what he considered right, not what he thought would be good. They're not that different in that regard. Maybe that's the reason they bump heads with each other so often. 

Jordan contemplates Brett and Stiles for a moment. "How can he do that?"

"There are a variety of possibilities. At least, we hope. A human becoming a nemeton is more legend than fact. This is guesswork at best, and I sincerely apologize," Satomi replies, running her thumb along the handle of her cup. 

“It’s okay,” Jordan says, and Stiles has to agree. Guesswork or not, it’s still more help than having to go off of nothing at all. Maybe they’ll have to rework some details, but that can be arranged on the fly. Right now, a starting point is everything he needs. 

Nodding again, Satomi continues, "Stiles could enforce a connection by using magic. The rather neanderthal methods of using the bite or claws to gain access to his mind might work as well." The way she scrunches up her nose for a moment makes it abundantly clear that she does not appreciate the use of claws anywhere near the neck area. Bonus points. So many bonus points. "Intercourse is always a valuable option when it comes to magic." Jordan's eyebrows shoot up, and Stiles somehow chokes on his own spit, coughing mortified as Satomi takes a sip of her tea, and Brett cackles next to him. 

_ Breathe.  _ Oh god, Stiles thinks, he's going to suffocate on his own spit. Well, he won't, but it certainly feels like it. Werewolves are the  _ worst.  _ They don't have any sense of shame, do they? No parent or guardian in their right mind would casually offer sex as a solution for their problems. Well, or maybe they would. What does he know? His relationship with his dad is close but not exactly normal, so they haven't spoken much about Stiles' love life - or lack thereof. It wouldn't be surprising if his dad still believed he's in love with Lydia, and that's why he broke up with Malia. Does his dad even  _ know  _ he broke up with her? Stiles can't recall that he ever told him. 

_ Oh. _

He should probably do that eventually. Shit, does  _ anyone  _ know he's not with her any longer? Does she know? Well, she does. Or she would've called him. Eventually. Maybe.  _ Shit _ . Shit. Shit. If those pictures make their rounds, it's not gonna look good. Because if Malia doesn’t even know they broke up, things are going to become really uncomfortable for everyone involved. 

"Is there something non-painful and less awkward?" Stiles asks, pushing a potential breakup drama to the back of his mind. He really doesn’t have time for this right now.

Scoffing almost indignantly, Brett crosses his arms next to him. "Awkward?" he asks, not without an air of arrogance. “I’ll have you know-”

“Oh my god, Brett,  _ please _ .” 

The werewolf huffs out a breath, but he concedes. "It's not really about gaining access with you. You have the keys, what you need is the right door. I can be that door," Brett says with a shrug. "It's easiest if we manage to sync up our heartbeats. I helped Lori find the ley lines through that as well." Their heartbeats have to beat in sync? Is that all? But now, he understands why Satomi mentioned sex would be a valuable option. Sure, Stiles isn't exactly envisioning his first time as this grande romantic thing. To be honest, he'd be down for a one-night stand if his distrustful mind allowed it. But he'd rather have his first time because he wants to then out of necessity. Things would be vastly different if he had sex before. That's for sure. Right now though? He’ll gladly take whatever other option there is. 

With a sigh, Brett wraps an arm around Stiles’ shoulders, like he’s done before, and almost hauls him close. After yesterday, having Brett’s arm around his shoulder is nothing particularly new or strange. It’s a comforting weight, a grounding touch, but Stiles wonders if Brett was doing it deliberately, or if he only did it because it’s what he does. Again, Stiles finds himself in the awkward position of not knowing enough about the werewolf to figure out what’s what, and today, he doesn’t even have Isaac to look at for answers. 

Or maybe Brett did it  _ because  _ of this weird connection. What if everything he did, he did because of it? What if- a heavy weight presses onto his chest. What if everything  _ Theo _ did was because of the connection between the nemeton and him? After all, he started acting weird only after this fucking tree died. But Stiles didn’t feel like that with Corey, or Josh, or any of the other chimeras. And they certainly didn’t feel the same way about him. Especially not Donovan and Tracy. But what if it’s because of their resurrection? Maybe it messed the connection up. 

“You reek of anxiety,” Brett informs him, scrunching up his nose.

Stiles clears his throat, not even bothering to try and do the same with his head. “Sorry,” he mutters, getting his legs on top of the sofa, so he can lean against Brett without bending his neck awkwardly. “I was just wondering about the chimeras.” Theo, he was specifically wondering about Theo, and by the brief look Brett shoots him, he can tell. “If they can do this too.”

It’s Satomi who answers, "no, they may be linked to the nemeton, but their connection was enforced. If the nemeton had given them access, Theo wouldn’t have needed you to find it." So, he's not drawn to Theo because of some inexplicable connection. Theo also didn’t kiss him because of that, either. So,  _ why _ did Theo kiss him? The answer didn’t do anything to calm Stiles’ mind or heart. Not that he expected it to. He’s not that lucky. Not even close. 

"How long is that going to take?" Jordan crosses his arms over the table, an eyebrow raised inquiringly. It seems like even Cerberus doesn't have the answers to a human nemeton. 

Brett encircles Stiles' wrist with his fingers. "As long as it needs to."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one we have at the moment," Satomi interjects before Brett even has the chance to open his mouth again. "I apologize, Deputy, but this is new for all of us." She seems genuinely sorry, yet manages to somehow keep every bit of confidence she has carried from the very beginning. It's clearly what she teaches her betas, to keep their head held high, no matter what they're facing. 

Brett hums, tapping his thumb against his wrist in tune to his pulse. Slow and steady.

"How do I know?" Stiles asks, rubbing his left eye with a frown. This isn’t the time for a lash stuck to his eyeball. It really, really isn’t.  _ Ow _ . 

Satomi watches him for a moment, silent and attentive. “It feels different for everyone.”

“You went looking for it,” Brett says, tilting his head to the side a little. It was almost reminiscent of a curious child studying something unfamiliar, something strange, something they don’t know what to think of. “What did you feel?” The humming continues. 

It has never been interrupted, even as Brett spoke.

Stiles stops rubbing his eye for a second, blinks it open before squeezing it shut again. “I heard my name first. Almost as if it’s calling me. Then I heard humming. Then- ow,  _ fuck _ .” The pain doesn’t leave. It gets worse. It stings. It burns. 

It spreads. 

From his left eye to his forehead, to his head, down his neck. With the pain comes the calling. His name. Over and over and over again. But not his chosen name. It doesn’t whisper Stiles. It’s screaming his real name. Once, twice, a third time. It’s the electric currents shrieking. Their rotten magic banging against his awareness.  _ Open the door. Open it. Open it! _ The pain spreads and shifts. The sensation that once was drawing him to the nemeton is now vile and demanding. Pushing, pulling, and slamming itself against the last defenses his mind has kept up for those who tried to enter it - especially if they’re anything like the nogitsune. 

The pain spreads further. Hot magma running through his veins, melting away his will, his fight, and his defenses. It’s burning through him with a scream - or maybe it is he who is screaming. He can’t tell. He can’t- he doesn’t  _ know _ . Everything hurts, yet the sting in his eye remains the focus of his attention. 

The defense splinters, cracks open with a last scream, and the pain vanishes from one second to the other. 

Stiles collapses, half the mind to prepare himself for the impact, but it’s arms he falls into. A hand brushes over his back in a soothing gesture, and he curls his fingers into fabric in return. The shrieking has quieted to a humming he feels rather than hears. It’s like a second pulse, something more subtle than his own heartbeat. But Stiles feels it because it is new and strange and alien. 

“What the fuck,” Jordan asks from somewhere above him, “was that?” 

Cerberus is restless underneath his skin. Stiles can feel his presence inside Jordan as much as he can feel the ley lines. He seems much more alive now that his existence is so palpable. Despite knowing about him, Stiles has never been able to sense him before. But now he does. He’s a fire smoldering, a fire who needs not much more than oxygen to unleash hell on earth. Cerberus isn’t the only one he can sense. There’s Brett behind him, his heartbeat like a thunderstorm, and Satomi to his right, whose presence is as soft and menacing as the moon wrapped in clouds. 

They’re attached to one another via strings, and Brett just gave him access to the control room.  _ This _ is the balance.  _ This _ is what Satomi meant when she said the chimeras weren’t a real disturbance. They aren’t part of the ley lines. They don’t have access to its power. They are a living and breathing and, in Theo’s case, most likely plotting their next murder. Stil, in the end, they’re nothing more than a heart unable to function without its pacemaker. He can feel them, even Donovan, not quite as strongly as he can feel the werewolves who are part of a ley line, yet their presence is more pronounced than that of the other supernatural creatures. 

And then, there’s Scott standing out like a dark cloud on a summer’s day. 

“I’m not sure,” Satomi admits after a long pause. “Connecting to the ley lines has never before been painful to an individual.” 

Stiles lets out a breath. He can feel their eyes on him, but he doesn’t dare to open his own, afraid of what he might see - or rather, what he might not. “I’m fine,” he says, hoping it will disperse the tension in the room. But he’s not. Something is wrong with his left eye. Something is so,  _ so  _ fucking wrong. 

Brett inches closer. “Did it work?” 

“Yes,” Stiles breathes, forcing his fingers to relax, “yes, I can feel it.” 

“Well? How  _ does _ it feel?”

“Overwhelming.” 

Wood groans next to him. “Stiles?” Satomi asks in a gentle, almost motherly voice. “Can you open your eyes for me?” 

He swallows. “Something is wrong, isn’t it?” 

“Change is not always wrong.” 

Taking a deep breath, Stiles turns his head and opens his eyes slowly. His vision is blurry at first, almost like he's looking at the world through frosted glass. He closes his eyes once more, shakes his head, and takes another breath. Both eyes work. Everything's perfectly fine. 

"Stiles," Satomi says again, her voice even softer than before, "show me your eyes." 

His heartbeat quickens. Stiles can feel it hammer against his ribs as if he's just run a marathon. Brett's words come back to mind, the panic surfaces with them. He remembers distinctly that too much nogitsune would kill him, and even though the alcohol didn't offer any sort of evidence - what if this does? What if this is somehow proof enough that he's too dangerous to have around. If connecting to the nemeton isn't supposed to be painful, maybe this means something else, maybe this means-

"Stiles," Satomi repeats firmer now. "I will not harm you. I would like to help you. For that, you must trust me." It’s not quite as easy to give that trust to someone who is prepared to kill him in case a nogitsune possessing him fucked him up more than they would like. 

Right. She's right. Stiles takes another breath and opens his eyes, blinking for a moment, waiting until his eyes get used to the concept of seeing again. After only a few seconds, his vision clears. No frosted window sight. Everything is perfectly normal seeing-vise. How nice. So that's good. Doesn't explain that the pain's source was his eye though. 

Satomi kneels down in front of him, carefully placing a finger underneath his chin to tilt his head back. She studies his face for a moment. "You're going to be fine," she concludes eventually, a slight but confident smile on her lips. "We will have you in control of your powers in due time." She places her hands on her thighs and straightens again. "Today, however, I will explain a few things to you. We will practice tomorrow, after you’ve had the chance to rest for a while."

Stiles glances at Jordan, who doesn't look entirely happy but mostly relieved with this information. "Okay," Stiles says, getting to his feet, "I'm all ears."

Hours later, Stiles still can’t get his mind off everything Satomi told him. Most of it was rather unsettling, yet knowing something - or having at least a general idea about what’s going on - is taking a huge weight of his chest. Despite her best attempts, she couldn’t help calm his nerves completely. There’s still one thing filling him with dread whenever he thinks about it. 

Stiles wipes the steam off the mirror and stares at his distorted reflection. Swallowing heavily, he places a hand over his left eye, stares at himself now, at the bright amber he inherited from his mother. He likes his eyes, their shape and color have always given him a sort of innocent look. Biting the inside of his cheek, he pulls his hand away. His innocence is gone. Stripped away. There's a silver mark in his iris now, claiming a part of the amber like a partial lunar eclipse hides the moon. Just that this will never go away. Magic leaves a mark. It always does. Unless it's more than magic, and Stiles really isn't a fan of the other option Satomi proposed. 

A nogitsune's eyes do not glow orange like that of the rest of its kind. They have silver eyes. Upon falling in-tune with the electric currents, whatever the nogitsune did to his body could've been triggered. Thus making the silver blotch in his left eye the mark of a nogitsune instead of magic. And a chimera with nogitsune parts will definitely not be welcomed with open arms into the supernatural community. 

Whatever it is, silence will always have to be on top of his list of defenses. Not just his silence. Stiles wonders if Brett has told Satomi about his ability to take pain. They agreed on killing him in case he is  _ too  _ nogitsune. But what really counts as being nogitsune? Sure, he’s a chimera, as the failed wolfsbane experiment proved, so he’s not truly at risk to fuck up the balance. Well, besides the fact that he’s  _ in charge of it  _ \- but what if he picks up too many of a nogitsune’s abilities? He’d rather keep the whole pain thing a secret, yet he can’t be sure if Brett has already reported back to Satomi. If he did, she’s cool with it. If he didn’t, he seems to be unsure about her reaction as well. 

And that’s really nothing he wants to think about right now. 

_ You know the rules _ .

Stiles does. He remembers. He knows _. _ Tell no one.  _ I don't know what happened to the nemeton. No, I was hit during sparring. No, it’s a genetic thing. No, I'm okay. No, I didn’t sleep well. No, I’m just tired. No, I’m not lying to you.  _ Lies upon lies that will haunt him for the rest of his life. Because silence is survival. A human can be easier found. A human can be easier accessed. A human can be easier torn to shreds. He can heal like the rest of them, but not for long. There is a limit to his power. And his skin isn’t made of marble. He bruises like a human. The only supernatural thing about him is everything he’s supposed to hide. He has to learn to keep his mouth shut, learn to control his anger. With tumultuous feelings, comes chaotic magic. Don't make mistakes. Magic is never the first line of defense. Weapons are. They can still kill him, and some will try. 

_ You understand how it works _ .

He does, and he doesn't. What he understands is that his body is the gun, but his mind pulls the trigger. He is in control. Not just of the magic, but of the ley lines. The currents bend to his will, and it’s easier when he closes his eyes, listening to the soft humming accompanying the beat of his heart. That’s where it is. That’s where it lies. That’s the key to everything. 

_ Then I will see you tomorrow.  _

Stiles runs a hand over his face and turns away from the mirror. Luckily, everything has calmed down now. The intense feeling of every supernatural connected to the currents has dulled down enough that he has to reach out for them specifically. Otherwise, he probably would’ve gone insane in no time. With a sigh, he grabs his shirt and pulls it over his head. Although he feels much better than he did in the morning, he’s still not opposed to staying in bed for the foreseeable future because even with access to all that magic, his problems are still very much existing. 

The most pressing one would be Donovan vanishing from jail, and while Stiles is technically able to find him, who would he send after the guy? He’s stronger than werewolves, definitely stronger than any deputy, and most likely hanging out with the Dread Doctors. Going after him without a plan is bound to end in a massacre.

Pulling out his phone, Stiles opens the window and leaves the bathroom, kicking the door shut as he goes. He frowns as a message from Jordan. 

_ >> The boss has spoken. It’s not my fault. Try not to kill him. _

The boss has spoken? Stiles squints at the message, ready to call Jordan back for some answers when he notices movement out of the corner of his eyes. Instinctively, he reaches for the next hard object within reach - which turns out to be a measly plastic water bottle - and hurls it at the intruder. He’s about to dart to the kitchen for new defensive means when said intruder lets out a string of curses. 

Stiles spins around. “Theo?”

Scowling at him, Theo rubs his shoulder. The water bottle rolls innocently at his feet. “Thanks for the warm welcome.” 

“I didn’t invite you in!”

“You didn’t,” Theo agrees, pulling out a set of keys from the pocket of his stupid khaki-colored jacket that looked ridiculously good on him at the hospital and still looks fucking amazing on him now. “But your dad did, and by extension-” he shakes the keys and smirks over them clinking against each other- “Jordan did as well.” 

_ The boss has spoken _ . 

Stiles lets out a breath. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“No.”

“That was rhetorical,” he snaps, crossing his arms over his chest. “What are you doing here?” 

Theo shrugs his jacket off and tosses it over the nearest chair. “Protecting you,” he says a second before the keys hit the table as well. And of course, he had to wear the shirt that clings to him and his ridiculous muscles the most. Because, why not? “I’m staying until Jordan’s shift ends.” So, he’s staying overnight, and instead of comfortable clothes, Theo chose to look good. 

Interesting priorities. 

“I don’t need you to protect me,” Stiles says, glaring at Theo from a distance. Because distance is good. Distance is, in fact, amazing. He’s thrilled to have it. 

“You can discuss that with your dad.” Like hell, he can. His dad is never going to back down, and what is he supposed to say? Stiles basically gave him a free ride to use Theo as he pleases after what he told him at the hospital. Theo knows that, so he’s going to take advantage of it. Because that’s what Theo does. 

Screaming internally, Stiles shrugs. The least he can do is pretending that he’s not at all bothered by the fact that Theo is going to stay the whole fucking night, looking ridiculously hot in his tight, white shirt. “Whatever.” 

"What happened to your eye?"

Always so observant. Stiles doesn't know if he should feel honored or stupid that Theo noticed it immediately. On the one hand,  _ of course, _ something as major as a discoloration in his left eye won't go unnoticed. On the other hand, Theo isn't exactly standing close. He's silent for a second. "Satomi thinks it's the mark the nogitsune's magic left on the nemeton." So much for keeping his mouth shut. But Theo knows, lying to him is kind of pointless.

"Nothing life-threatening then."

"No," Stiles replies a little too sharp for his own liking, "you and your breed will be fine."

“Good,” Theo says, and a grin creeps its way onto his lips, “what are we gonna do tonight?”

Stiles blinks. Oh, hell no. “ _ We  _ won’t do anything. You can do whatever. I’ll do whatever. We’ll do whatever very separated.” In fact, he’s going to crawl into bed, pull the blanket over his head and watch a terrible horror movie that’s going to distract him from how hot Theo looks. What is this? Just because he knows now that his attraction doesn’t stem from some weird connection to the nemeton, does not give his body the right to rejoice whenever Theo happens to look good. 

“That sounds like an exhilarating babysitter job,” Theo deadpans. 

Turning around, Stiles says, “you volunteered.” With a last glance over his shoulder, finding Theo looking at him with raised brows and a smirk, he kicks the door shut with his heel. 

Lydia purses her lips. "Are you coming back to school tomorrow?"

"Probably. Don't know." Stiles doesn’t want to go to school. Not really. He’s not as exhausted anymore as he used to be, but he’s still… he feels heavy, and Theo’s presence palpable through the door doesn’t make anything any easier. All he wants is to crawl into bed and hope that everything blows over without having to get involved. The last week, the fucking weekend, it took something out of him. Closing his eyes brings Donovan’s face, but this time, not because the light in his eyes is dying. This time, it’s the madness keeping him awake. The rage. His sheer exhilaration at hurting Stiles. Breaking him. 

"Gabe is talking shit about you," she says, twirling a loose curl around her finger. 

Stiles has a distinctive hunch, but he can't help but ask anyway. "Why?" 

She frowns and shifts almost uncomfortably on the chair. "The pictures."

The pictures. Yes. Of course. Oh,  _ shit _ . As expected, something like that wouldn’t go over without any sort of attention. Not when Brett is involved. Beacon County loves lacrosse, and Beacon County loves its Golden Boy. Social media, however, loves him more, and Brett doesn’t have to do too much about it. Staying away from school? That probably doesn't make him look any better. It's more like he's tucking his tail and runs.

Stiles doesn't reply, and Lydia shifts again. "Well," she says after an oddly long moment of silence. "I'm… I shouldn't chastise anyone for cheating-" biting the inside of her cheek, she tugs at the strand of hair around her finger.

It takes a moment to sink in. "Oh, I broke up with Malia."

Lydia's eyes brighten with relief. "When did that happen?"

Stiles wants to say  _ forever ago _ . In reality, he broke up with her not even two weeks ago. Fucking hell. What is his life? The last week feels like a lifetime. What day was it when everything fell apart? When Theo landed that last hit and ripped the pack and with that whatever was left of Stiles and Scott to pieces? Everything is a jumbled mess. "The day Theo locked you up."

This time, Lydia narrows her eyes slightly. "I don't think she understood that. What did you tell her?" So, he can expect to run into drama with that as well? Great. Because he has time for that. Maybe he should just stay home for the rest of the week. Argue that it won’t hurt his grades, but that he has to get his shit together before he can go back to school, especially with Donovan running around again. If he stays away long enough, maybe everything will blow over. He barely has enough energy to deal with the supernatural shit. Everything mundane really has to take a seat and wait its turn. 

There's a knock on the door, and Stiles glances up from his phone. He should probably be thankful Theo considered knocking even if he doesn't wait for an answer. After all, he didn’t even consider giving Stiles a head’s up about tonight. But maybe he thought Stiles would find a way to get out of this protective detail bullcrap. Which he is right about. Stiles definitely would’ve found a way to prevent being all alone with Theo - even if he had to invite the whole flipping gang for a protective detail gettogether. 

Stiles drags his attention away from the chimera in the room and back to Lydia. "I don't know.” Oh, he knows, he remembers how the conversation started, remembers how it instantly didn’t quite feel as if they were talking about the car, how accusatory she sounded when she said  _ how come you let it get so bad _ ? He remembers how the word echoed in his head.  _ You. You. You. You. _ Not supernatural creatures fucking up his life. Not Jordan flipping his car upside down. He did that. He ruined his car. He ruined their relationship. It’s  _ his fault _ . Dragging himself out of his thoughts, he shrugs. “It felt pretty final when I got out of the car." It felt pretty final when she told him it didn’t matter to her that he killed someone, that he was hurt, that she saw the bite and never said anything - after he lied to her face. She never confronted him. Their relationship was never meant to last, but Stiles won’t shoulder this responsibility all by himself. 

Sitting down at the edge of the bed, Theo watches him in silence, his gaze like little pinpricks on his skin. 

“Hayden said she was reeking of anger,” Lydia says, trying her hardest to sound as neutral as possible, "and apparently struggled with control."

Stiles doesn’t feel anything. He wishes he would, but he doesn’t. No hatred. No pity. No regret. He just doesn’t  _ care _ . In some way, he did care for Malia. Otherwise he wouldn’t have tried to help her, wouldn’t have been in a relationship with her. Or would he? Maybe. His stomach contorts. Stiles opens his mouth, knowing he should say something, but the words get stuck in his throat, form a lump in his throat until Stiles feels as if he’s going to choke on every single one of them. 

Theo curls a hand around his ankle, squeezing it through the fabric of the blanket and Stiles’ sweatpants. Speaking is suddenly a bit easier again. “I didn’t know she’s friends with Hayden.” 

“She isn’t,” Lydia replies, drawing her eyebrows together. “She just saw Scott lead her out of school.” There’s an edge to her voice that cuts deep. There’s something she wants to say but doesn’t because she thinks she doesn’t have the right to do so after kissing Scott while she was dating Jackson. 

This emptiness he feels is worse than any sensation of guilt could ever be. “I can’t do this right now,” Stiles whispers, pulling his legs up to himself and out of reach. Already hating how losing Theo’s fingers around his ankle makes him feel more than hearing that Malia was losing control because she thinks he cheated on her. 

Lydia’s expression softens. “It’s okay.” She licks her lips, glances at something in front of her, then back up again. “You didn’t do anything with Brett, right? I mean, even if you did, you weren't with her any longer." The question isn't entirely as rhetorical as she tries to make it sound. There is a question, a curiosity.  _ Did you _ ? Did you hook up with Brett? Do you like him? 

Say no. Just  _ say no _ . But the word refuses to slip past his lips. “Can I call you back later? Theo is staring at me, and it’s starting to creep me out.” Brett remains his shield. Stiles feels so stupid because of it, so fucking immature, like a child hugging a teddy to his chest as if that somehow could protect it from the darkness surrounding him. With the only difference that Brett  _ might _ just do that. Stiles is pretty sure he’s just waiting for the chance to pounce on the chimera.

"I'm hungry," Theo announces in a rather aggressive manner. 

Oh,  _ really _ . Somehow, Stiles doubts that’s the sole reason the guy waltzed in here. "Did you somehow miss the kitchen on your way in here?"

Lydia laughs. 

"I don't roam around in a stranger's kitchen." Funny that  _ that's  _ where he suddenly draws the line. Interesting concept, really. Other people’s kitchens are off-limits, but kissing someone who - no matter how much they wanted it - said no, that’s totally fine. Something is very wrong with Theo’s moral compass, and Stiles doesn’t even know where to start trying to fix this. Not that he wants to fix it. He’s past fixing others. He tried to fix enough people, it’s about time he starts fixing himself. 

Squeezing the bridge of his nose, Stiles says, "I'll give you permission."

"Doesn't matter."

If Theo is trying to piss him off, then he's doing a stellar job. He hasn't been in this room for more than two minutes, and Stiles is ready to banish his ass in the shadow realm. He takes a breath, plasters on a smile, and turns to Lydia. "I'll talk to you later, all right?"

She chuckles. "Try not to kill him."

"I make no promises," he replies and logs off as she cackles almost diabolically. Only Lydia manages to toe the line between driving him insane and loving him unapologetically this perfectly. At this point, Stiles is sure he wouldn't know how to function without her. 

Theo backhands his leg lightly. "So?"

"Order something, Theo, for fuck's sake." Stiles can't believe he is having this discussion. What is he?  _ Eight _ ? Although to be fair, Stiles knew exactly how to order food when he was six years old. He’s had to do it often enough with his dad working, and his mom stuck in the hospital. When his babcia or his babysitter ran late, his dad left money on the kitchen counter. After a while, the people on the other end stopped asking if he was allowed to order food because they  _ knew _ . Perks of being the only child of a deputy and a terribly sick mother in a small town. 

If you want to call something like that perks. 

Theo scowls. "That takes forever."

"Well, though luck," Stiles mutters, scrambling to his feet. Bed and Theo are not a good combination, especially not with Theo’s new habit of grabbing his ankle. All of that makes this the last position he wants to be in right now, especially when all he fucking wants is some godforsaken distance so he can get his mind in order. "I'm not going to make you a sandwich." He waltzes out of the bedroom. Stiles is thirsty anyway. 

Without a moment of hesitation, Theo follows him. "I want something warm anyway."

Stiles gestures in the direction of the stove and then rips open the fridge. He really doesn’t care. If Theo wants to make himself at home, Stiles is the last person to stop him. Everything is fair game that will keep Theo away. It’s really that simple. 

“I suck at cooking,” Theo says, sliding up behind him. “I’ll probably poison myself.” His breath hits the back of Stiles’ neck. Theo’s warmth presses through his thin shirt and is a complete contrast to the cold creeping out of the fridge. The belt buckle pressing against his ass is a prominent reminder of their proximity, of too much proximity.

Trying to push everything out of his mind, Stiles grabs an energy drink. “Please,” he says, pushing Theo away with his elbow - too close,  _ too fucking close  _ \- and slams the door shut, “do us all a favor and cook to your heart’s content. Nobody’s stopping you.” Even with the fridge door closed, Stiles can’t avoid brushing up against Theo when he steps away. He can’t deal with all of this bullshit. It’s an absolute disaster. Everything is happening all at once. His personal life is crashing around him, his humanity has gone down the drain - at least if they’re speaking physical terms - and then there’s the whole Theo debacle. 

It’s too much. 

He just wants to hide under the covers until all his problems quietly whooshed away in the night. 

“Fine,” Theo says, tsking for good measure, and pulls out his phone, “take out it is.”

“Don’t forget to order a dash for wolfsbane.”

Theo ignores the comment. “You want something?” 

“Nope.” Stiles turns away, opening he can with a strangely satisfying  _ clack _ . 

“You won’t get anything from me,” Theo warns, his gaze burning a hole in his back. As if Stiles would let Theo into his bedroom again. He’s locking the door, and if the guy wants to get in that desperately, he can either pick the lock or break down the door. Jordan won’t be happy about either, and it’s Jordan who definitely still thinks about shooting him in the face. So, he’s probably thinking twice about doing something stupid. 

Stiles is very okay with that. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”


	28. at the end of the rope

Theo did not try to enter the bedroom again, and Stiles didn’t leave it. Not even when he briefly summarised last night’s events to Jordan after Theo was gone. Stiles only opened the door so Jordan could confirm everything was all right but refused to actually leave the bed to go to school. Tired and annoyed, Jordan tried everything to get Stiles to move - pleading, bargaining, reasoning, threatening. There isn’t much he didn’t try. In the end, he called Stiles’ dad, who allowed him to stay home until Wednesday. If, and only if, Stiles follows the rules - no risk-taking, no sneaking out, no lashing out, no lying, and no keeping things from Jordan. Stiles is pretty sure he can handle that for two more days. 

Lydia texts him regular updates on how everything is evolving at school. Shortly before Jordan and he left to get to the Yukimura’s, Stiles received a live-feed of Liam going after Gabe. Apparently, he talked shit about him, which pissed Liam off. While it's very honorable that Liam felt very much offended for Stiles, giving Gabe a bloody nose wasn't necessary. Neither was detention for a month for Liam. He's lucky he wasn't benched for the charity game. Coach would've lost it.

Theo texts him too, but Stiles leaves his messages on read without bothering to reply. Distance, he tells himself, distance is the best course of action right now. Distance is what he needs. Especially since Theo's very presence works as a complete distraction, and Stiles doesn't need any more distractions because he's perfectly capable of finding those in the little things - as proven by making Satomi explain to him four times that the intensity of the humming is most likely an indicator for how much power he uses . “You can assess the strength of your spell by the intensity of the humming,” she told him as patiently as ever. “The more intense the humming becomes, the stronger your magic will become, and the more noticeable it will be to those connected to the ley lines.” It's a pretty simple concept, really, so Stiles has no clue how he manages to fuck it up multiple times in a row. 

He's Liam how to control his werewolf, he tried to help Malia find an anchor, and he helped Lydia figure out her banshee. This should be easy for him. It's his  _ thing _ . Figuring shit out, dealing with the supernatural, learning new stuff. Why is it so much easier to train others? 

Stiles glowers at the knot and rubs the back of his neck.

"Listen to the humming and focus on what you want to do." Satomi is excruciatingly patient with him - unlike Brett, who doesn’t hide the fact that he’s bored out of his mind, and pissed off at the notion that he, too, is grounded because of breaking and entering a warehouse for a party. Stiles is surprised he still talks to him, considering the way he was glaring at him in the beginning. As if it’s Stiles’ fault Satomi considered Jordan’s educational measures as appropriate punishment, “Listen, focus. Your imagination is the key.” Again, simple concept, he's supposed to apply to an even simpler task. There's a knot lying on the table in front of him, and he's supposed to reverse it without touching the rope, of course. But for some reason, Stiles either makes it jiggle or tears it apart. 

He still couldn't show any valuable progress when Kira comes home from school, and he starts to feel like an idiot sitting in a dimly lit room staring at a piece or rope. It's pissing him off, which makes him more likely to rip the damn knot apart, but when he takes a breath to calm himself all the stupid thing does is jiggle on the table, which pisses him off again. It's a vicious cycle, and Stiles, after tearing the umpteenth knot apart like a piece of paper, folds his arms over his chest. He’s done with this. At least for now. He needs a breather. He needs to do something differently. Either he’s missing something, or he’s doing something wrong.

And before his frustration gets the best of him, Stiles should step away.

Satomi somehow manages not to make him feel like a total loser by telling him that he never missed his mark and that the only thing he needs to find is balance. Thing is, Stiles is a fast learner, but he is also an impatient one. If something doesn't work after a few tries, he usually stops. Depending on how important it is or how determined he feels, Stiles picks it back up again, or he doesn't.  Sometimes, however, he starts doing something completely different and forgets what he was initially working on in the first place. 

He can't drop this. He can't ignore it. 

The second round of training doesn’t go over any better. Although Stiles should technically be able to use a katana, he’s awfully clumsy at it. If this whole session's goal is for him to find his balance, this katana isn't doing shit. It certainly doesn't help that Noshiko is scaring the hell out of him. Talk about taking training seriously. Fighting Kira, however, doesn't work either. Although she's clearly better than he is at fighting with a katana, Stiles still worries he might get an accidental hit in and hurt her really bad. All in all, that session concludes with him sitting more on his ass than anything else. 

Stiles is as drained as he can possibly get without collapsing on the spot. Jordan stays home that night, so there's no need for Theo to come around. 

The next day of training isn’t much better, and to be honest, Stiles is pretty sure this is a test of his patience, and he doesn’t have much of it to begin with. He gets it, and it’s not that he didn’t accomplish anything. After all, he manages to get the knot from simply jiggling on the table to hopping around a little. The magic does follow his command, but it's either not doing enough or too much. How the fuck is he supposed to protect his dad when he can’t get this stupid rope to unknot itself? He just doesn’t want to find his dad bleeding out again, that’s all he’s asking for, and he  _ can _ do it. He knows he can do it. 

But  _ how _ ?

Satomi remains confident despite the lack of accomplishments. Apparently, some people need longer to find their balance. "Werewolves are the same," she assures him with a smile and goes on to tell him that Brett was an absolute disaster once puberty struck. It sounds like there's an awkward childhood story hidden behind that, and Brett’s shocked expression makes it even better. He probably did not expect Satomi to spill his secrets. 

Nonetheless, Stiles feels less like a total failure. So, that's a good thing. 

Noshiko tries to make the katana work once again - they fight with the light dimmed this time around - but again, Stiles cannot get a handle on this thing. It doesn't feel right, and he can't tell if it's him, the nemeton viciously struggling with hurting people who are under his care, or the remnants of the nogitsune terrified of the very same weapon that ended its reign of terror twice. Maybe it's all three. Who the fuck knows at this point? All Stiles knows is that he can’t do shit with this thing, but Noshiko refuses to give him a break. She’s pushing him. Constantly attacking. 

Nevertheless, he's better than yesterday. If better means, he doesn't constantly fall over his own two feet or land on his ass. He's still more dodging than defending, and that'll only get him so far. Werewolves might be slower than him, but Stiles won't be a match for a fully grown kitsune. So, when Noshiko finally manages to catch him off guard, causing the katana to clatter over the floor, Stiles is about to propose a break because she must've noticed that this isn't working. Just because she doesn't like a Bo staff as a weapon doesn't mean he can't use it effectively. After all, it's just as lethal if used correctly, but it does bear fewer risks of accidents. Which is perfect for a person prone to accidents. 

Thing is, Noshiko doesn't stop attacking. She means business, and Stiles barely has the time to react. The sharp edge cuts through the fabric of his shirt as if it's nothing. Close. Far too close. But Noshiko's determination doesn't waver, and Stiles is not about finding out if she's ready to hurt him. He's not stupid enough to turn his back to her, Jackson attacking Derek and him at the pool had been a valuable lesson. Instead, he backs away, heart hammering against his ribs, stumbling over his feet. He flails, tries to hold on to something. But there’s nothing there. Stiles hits the ground hard. Frustration and anger coming to an unpleasant boiling point. He grinds his teeth, trying his best to keep the cursing at bay, and curls his hands into fists at his sides. 

A cold blade nudges his chin. “Giving up so soon?” 

Stiles presses his lips into a tight line and looks up at Noshiko. “I can’t work with a katana. I just… it doesn’t feel right. At all.” Frowning, he tugs at his sleeves and eyes the sword innocently glinting in the dim light a few feet or so away from him. 

“Unusual,” Satomi says, crossing her legs, “not impossible.” With how silently she and Jordan are observing everything, it’s easy to forget they’re even around. 

Kira pacing next to the door is less easy to ignore. "Mom, just let him use the Bo staff Dad made for him."

He has yet to see this Bo staff. Considering that Ken made a lot of weapons for the kitsunes, Stiles is quite excited about receiving his own, even though he's not totally sure how Ken does all that. Maybe he's picked up his very own magic somewhere else, or he prepares everything, and Noshiko adds the magical element. Stiles isn't sure what kitsune can and cannot do. 

"A kitsune should be able to handle every weapon with ease."

“Well,” Stiles says, scrambling back onto his feet with a scowl, “I’m just a chimera.” 

“You are never  _ just _ anything,” Satomi says in an almost scolding manner. As she rises from the chair, everything about her screams alpha, power,  _ leader _ . "You are the first of your kind," Satomi continues, crossing the room with long strides. "You are what you are because you fought against a nogitsune-" she grabs something that looks like rope, but when it slides against the table, it makes the sound of metal against wood like a chain would do "-and you survived." 

Stiles watches the rope for a second, trying to assess what the hell he's supposed to do with that. Is that a whip? They're not giving him a whip, right? Because that would be really weird. What the hell is he supposed to do with a whip? Aside from using it to chain Theo down in the basement. Which, come to think of it, not a bad idea. That way, he doesn’t have to worry about him constantly appearing out of nowhere. Although he could probably prevent that from happening. If only he could figure out what makes Theo feel different from the other chimeras, but they don’t seem to have very distinct nuances to their sensation.  Brett and Scott, Satomi and Lori, those he can easily distinguish from each other. The chimeras? Not so much. They all feel, not quite as wrong as Scott does, but not as right as Brett either. They’re neither here nor there, like a radio struggling to maintain its reception. 

Noshiko nods at Kira, who pulls the belt from her jeans. The katana snaps into place, glinting even in the dim lighting of the room. “This is one of the bo staffs Ken created. It’s not the one we prefer you to use, but it will do until you are ready.”

“Okay,” Stiles breathes, taking the rope from Satomi. It’s cold and heavy, like a chain should be, yet it still somehow has the consistency of a rope. It's a nice touch. Clearing his throat, he grabs the weapon with both hands. Almost as if it can read his mind, the rope hardens in his grip. Within the blink of an eye, he’s holding a bo staff in his hands. Almost immediately, he feels better, more balanced. 

He feels  _ right _ . 

With this thing, he can definitely beat some sense into people and supernaturals alike. "That's more like it," Stiles says, locking eyes with Kira, and grins. "Let's give this a shot." 

"Yes," she says with a grin of her own, "let's."

“Oh, no, she destroyed me.” 

Kira laughs quietly, almost looking a bit ashamed of it. “You weren’t that bad.” That’s true. Once he had the Bo staff in his hands, he wasn’t half as bad as he used to be when going against her or Noshiko with the katana. His body was a lot more in tune with everything and especially itself. There was a balance between his mind and body that hasn’t been there before. Everything came with ease, and, for the first time, being part nogitsune didn’t seem quite as terrible. Maybe once he has his magic under control as well, his level of frustration will go down to where it used to be before shit hit the fan. He certainly wouldn’t mind. 

“I sure hope that stick of yours helps you in lacrosse too,” Brett says, flipping through the Latin textbook in front of him with the expression of someone who’s done before they’ve even started. Quite relatable. Translating shit is boring as hell. But at the very least, Brett is still trying. Isaac has already given up. Although his Latin textbook is lying next to him, he hasn’t looked up from his phone in the last ten minutes. 

Kira places her chin on her hands. "It helped me."

Shrugging, Stiles sinks deeper into the sofa cushions and adjusts the laptop on his thighs. "I don't know if I'm playing."

"You  _ are  _ playing," Jackson calls from somewhere behind Lydia - there's a foot visible on the edge of her bed - at the same time as Brett does. Someone should probably mark this day in their calendars. They agreed on something. 

"Seriously," Brett adds, slamming his textbook shut hard enough that it slides over the desk, "your team  _ sucks so bad _ . I get bored playing against you, and I love lacrosse."

"Obsessed is the word you're looking for, mate."

Kira laughs quietly, as Brett turns his head to glare at Isaac, who couldn't look any less inconvenienced if he tried. Maybe the guy is a big softy when he’s alone with his pack, so Isaac doesn’t even bother to keep up any pretenses. 

"What I'm saying is-"

Stiles doesn't listen to the rest of the sentence because he hears a key turn in the lock. A moment later, the door clicks open, and Theo emerges from the darkness of the hallway. "Are you fucking kidding me?" 

"Excuse me?"

"Not you, Talbot," Stiles says without looking at the laptop. 

Like Monday evening, Theo throws his keys on the table while Stiles is questioning every single choice he made that put him in this position. He shrugs the leather jacket off before crossing the room and collapsing onto the couch next to him. A little too close for comfort - and in full view of everyone because even Jackson and Danny have gathered behind Lydia to watch the scene unfold live and in color. 

Isaac leans over Brett’s shoulder, squinting at Theo. “What’s that twat doing at your place?”

"Babysitting," Theo says. 

"He somehow convinced Dad that he's the right person to protect me.” Stiles scowls as Theo smirks, looking more than just a little satisfied with himself. The best way to deal with this is by going to the bedroom and ignoring his very existence.

Brett runs a hand through his hair, scoffing quietly. “And you’re going to protect him from whom? The neighbor’s dog?”

Stiles closes his eyes. They can’t keep it together for a second, can they? 

“Mate-”

“No, seriously,” Brett interrupts before Isaac has the chance to finish his sentence, “he doesn’t stand a chance against Donovan. We barely had him under control.” He has kind of a point. Stiles knows that, and Isaac does too even if they both disagree with the delivery. 

Theo quirks a brow. “But I can give him enough time to run.”

Lydia parts her lips, gaze flicking from Theo to Stiles. Her eyes have the same sharpness Satomi looked at him with on Monday. She knows. She knows everything. “How?”

A direct question. Straight to the point. Theo isn’t afraid to deliver. “What do you think? Just because Talbot was faster doesn’t mean I wouldn’t have done the same thing.” Meaning, he would’ve thrown himself at Donovan as well. Meaning, he would protect him again, would pull him out of a burning car again. 

"Okay, that's enough social interaction for you for one day," Stiles says, mostly because Brett is already opening his mouth for another reply. These two really have it out for each other. "See you tomorrow. Good night.” He slams the laptop shut, ignoring Brett’s rather impolite demand to wait. Because he’s not going to wait. He’s going to go to bed. Rolling his eyes, he gets to his feet, laptop clasped under his arm. 

Theo scoffs. "You're going to lock yourself in the bedroom again?"

"Beats staring at you for the rest of the evening."

A chuckle, distinctly more amused this time. "What's the problem? Afraid of temptation?" Theo asks, sounding more and more like he won a game they have never officially started. 

_ Yes.  _ Stiles takes a deep breath and turns to look at Theo. "I got away with murder once. Doubt I'll be that lucky again."  _ Now go. Leave _ . He presses his lips into a thin line, holds Theo's gaze for a little longer, and finally manages to force his legs into moving. For effect, he bangs the bedroom door shut. Maybe Theo will get the hint and stay away from him. 

He doesn’t. Not that anybody is surprised about that development. Theo is Theo, after all, and being able to predict his behavior correctly when it comes to this is definitely more than a little reassuring. Stiles has been surprised and confused by Theo more than enough the past week. That doesn’t mean he enjoys the company or wants him here. What he wants is to be fast asleep to get this night over with before something happens that shouldn’t be happening. But he can’t sleep, Brett admitting that he felt helpless against Donovan, it kicked something loose; it's as if the situation finally hit him fully - the risk, the danger, everything. Because Brett's right, what can Theo do against Donovan aside from throwing himself into danger, apart from maybe getting himself killed in the process? 

Taking a deep breath, Stiles tries to push the thought away. But it's not working. He’s overwhelmed and restless, energized yet completely exhausted. His mind is actively working against his body, and in the brief moments when that’s not a problem, memories of Donovan come back to the surface, adding to the terrible pictures of his dad dying and Theo lying unconscious on the cold ground, Lydia’s bruised face as well as her panicked expression after being paralyzed. 

Stiles pulls his blanket tighter around him. 

The mattress shakes when Theo throws himself onto it as ungracefully as he possibly could. Shifting around a little, he occupies the outer corner of the pillow. Since Stiles is lying close enough to the edge, he could roll off if he’s not careful, there’s still plenty of distance between them, yet it doesn’t feel like enough. Instead of shifting closer, however, Theo pulls the blanket higher over Stiles and smoothes it over his shoulder. His hand lingers there for a while, warm and gentle, causing Stiles’ traitorous heart to pick up speed. This isn’t right. This isn’t how this should be. Theo should grab him and turn him around. But he doesn’t. For a brief moment, Stiles could’ve sworn, Theo brushes his thumb over the blanket before pulling his hand completely away. 

The loss of contact makes Stiles shudder involuntarily. He pulls the blanket even tighter around him. 

Theo’s gaze is palpable on his neck and the back of his head "I'm bored," he informs him quietly, almost as if he intends to give him an option to stay quiet, to keep pretending he's asleep although they both know he's not. 

Stiles thinks about staying quiet, but only for a moment. Something tight inside his body uncoils, loosens and gives him a strange sense of ease, of safety. Maybe because Theo keeps his mind off of all the other bullshit going on in his life. “That’s too bad,” Stiles replies eventually, fighting the urge to turn around. The last thing he wants to do is give Theo the wrong impression. “Maybe you should do something about it.”

“Any ideas?”

Stiles curls his fingers into the pillow. “How would I know? What do you usually do when you’re not killing chimeras or ruining other peoples’ lives?”

Theo laughs quietly, a soft sound in the late evening’s silence. “Planning how to kill chimeras and ruining peoples’ lives.”

The joke is plain as day, yet Stiles refuses to entertain Theo. Despite knowing what he knows, he's very aware of the chimera in his bed and the distance between them as well as how nice the hand on his shoulder felt. Stiles can't tell if it's because Theo touched him, or because he seriously craves any kind of human contact he can get. Maybe it's a little bit of both. "Then you have your answer. Go and do your worst. I'm not stopping you."

Again, Theo laughs. The mattress moves with him. 

The distance feels bigger now, so Stiles dares to turn around, and he's not particularly surprised to find Theo already looking at him. Moonlight spills onto his cheek, makes his skin glow in a way that almost seems unreal. His fingers twitch, and Stiles has to fight down the urge to touch him. 

Theo licks his lips, closes his eyes for just a second, and a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. 

Stiles wonders how it would be like if he woke up to this view on an everyday basis - a picture that buries itself into his mind hard enough that he has to remind himself of who Theo really is. Biting the inside of his cheek, Stiles rolls onto his back and watches the shadows and light dance across the bedroom ceiling. 

A quiet huff catches his attention. "I usually watch movies or play video games," Theo says, crossing his arms behind his head. "I'm not too big on friends."

"I guess that's a consequence of killing people and acting like it's a stroll in the park," Stiles replies, not daring to turn his head even though he can feel Theo's gaze bury into his cheek. They both know that's not quite true. Theo has never been good with social interaction. When they first became friends in the past, it was because Stiles never stopped pursuing the friendship. Before the supernatural world swallowed him whole and fucked him up, Stiles used to be the kid collecting strays. He saw a loner and became friends with the loner. That goes for Theo just as much as for Scott. Maybe that's why he got so hooked on Lydia because he knew, deep down, that she was lonely too. Although Stiles never had many close friends, he surrounded himself with a lot of people without much of a struggle. Even after his mother's death. Then high school came, and everything changed because suddenly he stood at the bottom of the social ladder which Scott so desperately wanted to climb, and Stiles was along for the ride. Then came the supernatural, and Stiles found himself in a position of knowledge, of becoming more and more scared of strangers, of looking for potential signs. 

Stiles wonders how everything would've turned out if the Dread Doctors hadn't found Theo, if they hadn't broken and ruined him, if he had stayed. 

"I'll always protect you, you know that, right? Not just because of the nemeton. Stiles, I-"

"I'm tired, Theo," he interrupts him because all of this is already hard enough as it is without all those confessions. Or lies. Whether they are true or not, Stiles doesn't know what he could say to that. He used to be sure about everything regarding Theo, but after all the shit that happened in the last week, it's so hard. He just doesn't know. 

The mattress moves when Theo rises to his feet. "I'll let you sleep then."

Stiles rolls onto his side again. "Thanks," he says, not a hundred percent sure what he is thanking him for.

The door clicks and doesn't open again until Stiles opens it to leave the room in the early morning after a sleepless night. He finds Theo still fast asleep, his face pressed into a pillow, hair tousled, and the blanket lying next to the floor. His body exposed to the cold air sneaking in through the open window as well as the sound of rain slamming against concrete.

As quietly as possible, Stiles crosses the room and picks the blanket up, trying to ignore how innocent Theo looks, how soft and normal. Biting back a smile, Stiles places the blanket back on top of Theo, and he's about to pull it over him properly. But before he can do so, a growl reaches his ears. Stiles realises his mistake the moment Theo's hand finds his throat, claws digging into his far too easily breakable skin. 

Feeling as if his windpipe is being crushed, Theo pulls Stiles onto his knees. 

" _ Theo _ ," Stiles chokes, wrapping a hand around his wrist while raising the other in the air, just in case Theo decided to go for another attack. 

Instead, Theo lets go of him as if he's burnt himself, and Stiles doubles over, coughing and trying to keep himself from hyperventilating. Because he's been there, and he knows where it can go. The last thing he needs right now is a fucking panic attack with nobody but Theo around. 

"Fuck." Bare feet hit the hard wooden floor, and Theo crouches next to him, a hand softly placed in his back. "I'm sorry," he says, sounding genuine, and yet Stiles can't help but wait for the snide addition.  _ You shouldn't have woken me up. You should've known not to startle me. _ He's gotten so used to hearing them over time. Sometimes with the addition that he ruins their lives by canceling a fucking date to  _ protect their crush _ . Or for getting shit defending himself.  But Theo doesn't say anything, he doesn't blame him, and that somehow hits harder than it should, because Theo should be the one doing it, right? Theo should be the one absolving himself of all guilt. Yet here he is, crouching next to him, rubbing small circles into his back, and apologizing quietly. 

Stiles squeezes his eyes shut and shook his head. "It's my fault," he says, feeling old habits take hold of him. "I should've known better."

Theo watches him quietly as Stiles sits down and rubs his throat with a scowl. "You couldn't have." That's true, but that doesn't necessarily mean Theo wouldn't blame him. But he still doesn't. Instead, he crosses his arms over his thighs and sighs. "Living with the Dread Doctors made me a bit jumpy." 

"I wonder why," Stiles deadpans, glancing up at him. 

With a quiet chuckle, Theo stands up and offers him his hand. Not thinking about it, Stiles allows himself to be pulled to his feet. There’s no spark, no electric zap upon touching him. It’s nothing like in the movies. Instead, Stiles notices how soft Theo’s skin is against his own, how warm, how nicely their hands fit. He hates that he doesn't hate it, hates that he doesn't pull his hand away before they both realize they're holding on for far too long. 

Eventually, Stiles does, folding his arms tightly over his chest. "It's pretty early. You can sleep a bit longer." 

"You as well," Theo says, nodding in the direction of the window. "I doubt track is gonna happen in this weather." Oh, sweet, sweet innocence. Coach's 'I don't give a fuck' attitude has fooled him too. Theo is going to have a rude awakening. 

Stiles shakes his head with a laugh. "You clearly don't know Coach."

Theo quirks a brow and turns out the window again. Maybe he's right. The weather is nasty.  _ Really _ nasty. The type of weather that begs you to stay inside. The type of weather in which track could be considered criminal assault. 

With a groan, Stiles flops onto the couch. “That sucks.” 

Theo sits down next to him, keeping just enough distance not to appear too pushy, yet close enough to keep pressure on Stiles’ personal bubble. “You like track that much?” 

“I don’t know,” he admits, pulling his shoulder up into a slow half-shrug. “I’m good at it. It feels nice.”

“I bet there are other things you’re good at that feel nice.” 

Stiles scowls and slumps against the backrest, shrugging again. “Using magic feels debatable, but I guess using a weapon-” he stops mid-sentence, lips still parted, and watches in horror as Theo’s shoulders shake with a silent chuckle. His blue eyes brighten with amusement. “Oh.” Stiles flushes and swallows, trying as hard as possible to stop himself from pressing his hands to his face. “You mean sex.”

Theo smirks. “Took you a hot second.” 

“Well… I’m not constantly thinking about sex as you do, obviously, because there are more important things at stake, you know?” If he stopped flushing now, Stiles would really appreciate it. 

Crossing his arms over his thighs, Theo leans closer. “I can smell three things on you, especially when we’re alone.” He raises a hand and counts on his fingers, “irritation, annoyance-” Theo pauses for dramatic effect “-arousal.” 

His cheeks heat further. Stiles clears his throat, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “You must be mistaking me for somebody else.” 

“No.” Theo shakes his head. “I recognize your scent anywhere.” 

“Okay, that’s… that’s creepy.” 

Laughing quietly, Theo quirks a brow. “Is it?” 

“Yes,  _ yes _ , it is.” No, it’s clearly not. Everything about this is the a-typical werewolf thing. These fucking creatures always stick their nose, quite literally, in things that aren’t any of their business. Some are better at it than others. People like Theo are obnoxiously attentive to the little nuances of other peoples’ scent because they need it to fuck with his victims. 

Theo smiles and places a hand on Stiles’ knee. “I like your scent. It’s-.”

“Drop it,” Stiles all but yells, a surge of panic and anger and frustration mixing to a dangerous cocktail. It’s better to leave again before this scale tips in a direction he doesn’t want it to. Theo is too close. He’s so different when they’re alone, and Stiles can’t tell what’s what anymore. He doesn’t know what to feel, doesn’t know what to think, and he sure as hell doesn’t know what to do. 

A sigh reaches his ears when he’s halfway across the living room. “You can’t hide forever.”

“Watch me,” Stiles says, purposefully not turning around. The last thing he needs is to see the face matching the disappointed tone. Instead, he slams the bedroom door shut for good measure. Taking a deep breath, he stands there, glaring out the window. Now what? He has an hour until track starts, probably more because Theo is right, they’re not going to run in this rain. He would sell his soul for two hours of sleep, but that’s not going to happen. He doesn’t even need to try. So, no sleep. Jordan won’t be home for two more hours either. 

Stiles scans the room, hearing Theo’s quiet footsteps on the other side of the door, and huffs out a breath. He can stay in here like an idiot and hide from his problems, hoping his mind won’t play Donovan's attacks in a loop, or he can go outside, stop being a baby and show Theo that he’s wrong. Yes. He likes that plan. That’s good. That’s perfect. Seriously. No hiding in this bedroom any longer. If he can’t handle Theo, he won’t be able to deal with Peter, and he  _ can _ deal with Peter, that’s one of the few things he’s a hundred percent sure about. 

So, he's going to deal with Theo. 

Somehow.

He’ll get to the bathroom, make breakfast, and ignore Theo the whole time. That’s perfect, and that’s for sure going to work. It has to because he is not going to talk about his feelings or attraction for Theo  _ with _ Theo. That’s so not going to happen. Nodding to himself, Stiles leaves the bedroom again. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Theo sitting on the couch, already looking at him. 

“Someone changed their mind quickly,” he notes.

Stiles purses his lips, speeds up, and vanishes into the bathroom.

This was a terrible idea. Well, no, not entirely. It was a great idea, he just should've known that it would end in him overdoing it.

His naleśniki taste almost exactly the way his babcia used to do them. The only thing different is the filling because Jordan did not have farmer's cheese and sour cream, so he had to go for cream cheese. It's not perfect, but it works. He placed the dough and filling in the fridge, so he can finish them once Jordan comes home. 

Since he's finished the naleśniki, and he's still having a lot of time to spare, Stiles continues to make something else. Because that's what happens when he is angry or stressed or overly emotional, he bakes. It's a family thing. His mother baked enough pierogis for the entire police department  _ and  _ their families once during a particularly dangerous case his dad had been involved in. His babcia probably still does it. Stiles vividly remembers her standing in the kitchen, basically twenty-four-seven when his mom was hospitalized and her health deteriorated constantly. 

Drinking too much or baking too much, those are the two coping mechanisms he has picked up in his childhood. Stiles usually has a good handle on everything. He often prepares breakfast for his dad without going completely ham. He didn't exactly stress-bake during the past two years, mostly because he was too busy running for his own life or saving that of others. But now, he is stressed for different reasons. Realistically, he is the only one in direct harm’s way, that they know of, at least, so he’s not allowed to be alone - and that’s stressful as hell when the person he ends up alone with is Theo fucking Raeken. 

Baking it is.

Too focused on kneading the dough for far too many pierogi viciously, Stiles only notices Theo when he’s already right next to him, causing Stiles to flinch hard enough to bang his knee against the kitchen counter. “What are you doing?”

Stiles rubs his knee and glares at Theo. “What the fuck does it look like?”

“A kitchen nightmare,” Theo replies, gesturing briefly towards the used kitchen utensils and the spots of flour everywhere. Nobody said baking was the cleanest way to relieve stress. But it’s definitely the much healthier approach. 

Stiles notices in the last second, that Theo is actually attempting to reach for the dough, and slaps his hands away. “This isn’t for you.” 

“But I’m starving.”

“Well, there’s a supermarket down the street,” Stiles says, slapping Theo’s hand away, yet again. He only turns at the huff of exasperation - to find himself far too close to a Theo wearing a distinctive lack of clothing. That’s not good. 

Theo scowls. “So what, you’re making breakfast, and I have to buy processed food?” 

Stiles shrugs and turns away again, focusing on forcing the dough into a ball. It has to be left to rest for thirty minutes soon, so he has to find something else to do now that Theo has decided he did not want to stare at him from the comfort of the couch. “It’s for Jordan,” he says as a matter of fact.

“Jordan can’t eat all that by himself.”

“I intend to freeze half of it,” Stiles replies, flattening the ball of dough again to prolong the whole kneading thing. 

Theo sighs and steps closer, and although he’s not touching him, Stiles can already feel his naked skin against his arm. He really doesn’t want to think about what his scent might smell like right now because Theo steps even closer, diminishing every last bit of distance between them and wraps his arms around Stiles’ waist. “I’m the one protecting you,” he whispers against the nape of his neck, either ignoring or being oblivious to the way Stiles tenses. “I deserve at least one of your mom’s delicious pancakes.” 

Stiles’ mind grinds to a screeching halt. Theo remembers, and now the memory is pushed to the forefront of his mind; the memory of two nine-year-old boys sitting on the kitchen counter, watching his mom prepare naleśniki for them in the evening because Theo’s parents were extremely late. They forgot him. Stiles’ parents never told Theo, but he’d probably figured that out. He’s always been observant. 

Theo runs his mouth along the lines of Stiles’ thankfully clothed shoulders, then presses his forehead between his shoulder blades. 

Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Stiles forces himself to keep kneading. “They’re called naleśniki and it’s my grandmother’s recipe.” Why did he let him get so close? Why did he allow him to overstep boundaries yet again? Why can't he keep Theo at a distance?

A chuckle presses their bodies closer together.

Stiles frees one hand from the dough and digs his elbow into Theo’s chest. “Back off.” 

For a very brief second, the arms around his middle tighten. For the same amount of time, Stiles wishes Theo won’t let go, that he just holds on, and somehow pushes Stiles into giving in, into letting go of what’s right and indulging in what’s wrong  _ just once _ . Maybe everything is going to become easier after that. Maybe if he knows- Theo let’s go of him and steps away. Stiles is relieved and disappointed that Theo lets go so quickly. 

A moment later, he knows why. The door opens with a click, and Jordan enters the flat with a yawn. It’s probably better that he let go, but would he have done it if Jordan hadn’t come back? 

Jordan stops in the doorway, hand still on the knob, and takes in the scene. His surprise turns into suspicion. “What did you do?” 

Stiles can’t even bring himself to be offended by the insinuation. “Breakfast,” he says, glancing over his shoulder at Theo, who’s standing with crossed arms far enough away from him to look inconspicuous. “I thought… you might be hungry.” He offers a small smile, trying his best not to look guilty, even though he still kind of does after the weekend and the last three days. When Jordan took him in, he probably didn’t expect that Stiles would be this exhausting to be with. 

“I’ll change into something dry,” Jordan replies after a moment and closes the door behind him. Brushing wet hair away from his face, he lets out a sigh. He eyes Stiles for a moment and draws his brows together. “Did you get some sleep?”

“A bit,” Stiles says, biting the inside of his cheek. “I… uh-” he pokes the dough "- couldn't stop thinking about Donovan. Brett mentioned him and…" he trails off with a shrug, not sure how to end the sentence. This isn't even what he wanted to talk about. "Listen, Jay… I'm sorry for…"

Jordan raises a hand. "I know you are, and I'll forgive you, just- just promise me to be better from now on."

"I promise."

"Good." Jordan's shoulders sink with relief, and seeing the tension he was holding in them vanish doesn't make Stiles feel much better. The last thing he wants to be is a burden, that's why he needs to get this magic under control. He has to be able to defend himself, so Jordan doesn't have to. "Is he eating with us?" Jordan asks, pointing at Theo. 

"Yes."

Stiles shakes his head. "No."

Jordan raises his brows, Theo grins, and Stiles hates everything about this. The guy really doesn't have to get comfortable around here. As soon as Stiles can defend himself or the Donovan problem has sorted itself out, Theo will not set foot into this apartment ever again. "Make yourself useful, then," Stiles snaps, gesturing in the direction of the cupboard, "and set the fucking table."

"Language!" Jordan shouts over his shoulder on his way to the bedroom.

Stiles decides not to comment on that cliche of a parental reply.

"No," Stiles insists, "I'm not riding with him." The last time he was in a car with Theo, his defenses were lowered drastically. He needs time to build them again. Distance, and all that. 

Jordan massages his temple. “You really wanna take the bus?”

“Kinda, yes," Stiles replies, closing the dishwasher with his hip, "I'd rather  _ walk _ ."

"You're overreacting."

Oh no, he is not overreacting. He is everything  _ but _ overreacting. The last time Theo drove him anywhere, he got way too close, and he's so not going to risk that, not today, not after what happened earlier today. Theo is too close for comfort. They have to work on their distance. Preferably now.

Not that he can tell Jordan about any of that because as much as he wants Theo to leave him the hell alone, he does not want for him to end up being shot by a very protective deputy and his angry hellhound.

"The bus leaves in five minutes," Jordan informs him after a glance at his watch, “and I will extend your grounding if you’re late for school.” 

“ _ Oh my god _ .” Stiles can’t deal with more days stuck at home, especially if training with Satomi and Noshiko is over. "Fine." Going to school and coming straight home? No, thank you. Not that he minds staying home at all. He simply wants it to be his choice. With a huff, he curls his fingers around the straps of his backpack. “See you later, Jay."

“Have fun,” Jordan replies, amusement clinging to every syllable.

Stiles glares at him then hurries out the door, not waiting for Theo to catch up. Not that his resistance stops Theo in any case. He follows him instantly, steps and keys the only noise in the otherwise empty stairwell. Despite the size of this apartment complex, Stiles is the youngest person living here. The landlord either hates children or he favors people between the ages of twenty and thirty-five - unless they’re a college student. Jordan’s next-door neighbor loves to chat about everything, but especially the stuff happening in here. Stiles really doesn’t want to know what he thinks happened the night when Stiles flung Theo across the living room. 

“You’re in luck,” Theo says darkly before they exit the building. “There’s your chance to keep running.” 

“What’s your fucking problem?” Stiles asks, pulling his hood over his head before shoving the door open. 

A horn sounds before Theo has the chance to answer. “Yo, Stilinski!” Jackson yells out of the barely rolled down window of his new Porsche. “Need a ride?”

“ _ Yes _ .” Perfect. Absolutely perfect. Grateful for this shot at more distance. 

“See where it gets you!” Theo calls after him as Stiles dashes for the best, yet most unexpected, getaway car he could’ve ever hoped for. Again, he doesn’t turn around. Again, he’s too worried he might not be able to handle the expression matching Theo’s tone. Because Theo doesn’t sound angry. He doesn’t feel angry, not even a little. He’s frustrated with how things are going. Seriously fucking frustrated, and Stiles really isn’t sure how to feel about that. 

Danny turns around in his seat. “He stayed the whole night?” 

“Yes,” Stiles says, fumbling with the seatbelt. “Yes, he did.” 

Jackson glances at him in the rearview mirror. Although his lips twist a little at the wet state Stiles is in, he doesn’t say anything. “Where’s your piece of shit jeep?”

Scowling, Stiles brushes wet hair away from his forehead. “At the garage. Guess being turned upside-down and set ablaze by a hellhound damaged it more than first anticipated.” 

“Hellhound?” Danny asks, his eyebrows climbing high and higher in horror. 

Stiles smiles weakly at him. “Lydia didn’t tell you everything, huh?” 

“No,” Jackson drawls, lips curling into a scowl. “She clearly did not. Who’s a hellhound?” It’s very telling that he sounds more done with everything than actually surprised or disturbed. In fact, he sounds as if he just wants to get over with the introduction to all this madness. Which is understandable. 

Stiles watches the wipers fly over the windscreen with little to no improvement to the sight. “Jordan,” he replies, rubbing his left eyebrow, “although he’s not really a hellhound. It’s more that he’s possessed by one.”

“Oh, yes, that makes it better.” 

Danny sinks into the passenger’s seat. “I remember why I left this town.”

The members of the lacrosse team are a piece of work. The day isn’t half over, and Stiles yanks the third note calling him a traitor of his locker door. It’s not that he’s hurt by it in any way. Not even a little. It’s annoying, and honestly, Stiles wonders why they’re not already tired of it. “This is why I never wanted to be one of the cool kids,” Stiles says, crumbling the piece of paper in his hand. 

“This is exactly why you should be one of the cool kids,” Danny replies, nodding in Jackson’s direction. 

“What’s there to stare at, dickhead?” The freshman Jackson is addressing ducks his head and darts away without another word. It’s not that Stiles doesn’t appreciate the sudden, if not strange, protective streak - and he sure as hell has Lydia to thank for that - but he really doesn’t need it. Not at all. He especially doesn’t need Jackson going around insulting people for him. 

Lydia pats Stiles’ shoulder. “It’ll blow over. It did with Allison and Kate, with me running naked through the woods, and it will with you and Brett.” Out of those three things, the stupid pictures are the least troublesome. Unless you’re a die-hard for lacrosse. Then things are different. 

Fucking nutjobs. 

“When I’m done with them after lacrosse practice today, they’ll stop.” 

Stiles pulls his history textbook out of his locker, glancing at Jackson. "So, Coach did make you captain?" Wouldn't be surprising. Jackson leaving Beacon Hills devastated the guy because he lost one of his two star players. After Danny left as well, it was a miracle Coach didn't quit altogether.

"Co-Captain," Jackson corrects, not without a certain amount of bitterness in his voice. Someone clearly still does not enjoy sharing the top spot. "For now. He'll make his final decision on Friday." He's suddenly next to him, throwing an arm around his shoulders in a way that makes it abundantly clear he's looking for a favor. Stiles might be tired, but he's far from stupid. "And you," he pokes his upper arm, "are my secret weapon."

Danny rolls his eyes. "Here we go."

Lydia laughs and starts walking.

Closing his locker, Stiles follows her with Jackson by his side, who keeps talking about lacrosse of all things, "Coach knows you have potential since that one insane game sophomore year. We'll just tell him I trained you, and you use your abilities for the good of the team." 

Oh  _ god _ . Stiles cannot handle two people in his life who prioritize lacrosse above all else.  "That's called cheating."

Jackson pulls his arm back, jabbing a finger in the direction of his face again. "That's  _ winning,  _ Stilinski.  _ Winning _ ."

“No, that’s overreacting,” Danny tells him, briefly glancing over his shoulder, “it’s a charity game, Jackson. This isn’t about winning, it’s about raising money for people in need.” 

Nobody is surprised when Jackson waves his best friend off. If Liam is to be believed, Coach isn’t much different. No wonder the guy immediately named Jackson co-captain, although it’s the off-season. If Coach makes him the captain of the team, Jackson will torture them the next two weeks, and Stiles is so not in the mood for that. They don’t have time either, or did Jackson already forget about why Lydia asked for their help in the first place? 

"Listen, lacrosse isn’t really high on my list of priorities right now." Before the words left his mouth, Stiles already knew me made a mistake. But he can't take them back now, even though Jackson looks at him as if he just insulted everyone he ever cared about. 

Danny grimaces, then chuckles. 

Huffing out a breath, Jackson shakes his head. "Take one for the team! We need someone who is not above playing dirty every once in a while.” The worst thing about this is that Jackson means every word he says, and it’s hard to tell if that’s supposed to be an actual compliment or a backhanded one. 

Stiles can tell he’s not going to get out of this conversation unless he at very least pretends to agree. “I’ll think about it.” 

“Great!” Jackson smacks his shoulder, either underestimating his werewolf strength or overestimating Stiles’ supernatural resistance. Either way, it’s hard enough to knock the wind out of him. “See you on the field.” So much for giving him time to consider his options.

For some reason, Stiles gets the feeling he’s not going to get out of this one. Well, another near-death experience might do the trick, but he’s kind of over those. Two are enough for the foreseeable future. With a sigh, Stiles enters the empty history classroom. Well, not quite as empty as he anticipated before entering. “Tracy,” he says, stopping near the door, “what are you doing here?” Stiles has no idea what classes she takes, but it for sure isn’t AP World History. Theo does, though, so she might be waiting for him. 

“He was desperate, you know?” Tracy’s lips curl into a cruel smile. Not waiting for Theo then. Fantastic. “He couldn’t fuck me fast enough while you were hospitalized.” His stomach contorts at her words, and Stiles hates himself for it. This shouldn’t get to him. He shouldn’t be jealous of Tracy’s unrequited love, and Theo’s destructive sexual mannerisms. He shouldn’t be bothered by Theo putting sex above Stiles’ health. After all, he knows that all of this is about power and nothing but power.

But that was also the day Brett took his pain. Theo told him he acts out when he’s jealous. He told him- no. No. No, Stiles will not let his thoughts get away from him. He will not get his hopes up. He will not be  _ that _ person. It feels overly defensive when he hugs the textbook to his chest, even though Stiles is aware he only does it so he stops himself from chucking it in her face. “I really don’t give a shit about what you and Theo do and don’t do in the bedroom.” Knowing that’s not going to change her mind, Stiles tries to get to his desk.

Tracy steps in his way. “He’s quiet during,” she whispers, leaning a little towards him with her arms crossed and that fucking smile still on her lips. It looks like a bad copy of Theo’s presumptuous smirk. It doesn’t look nearly as good on her as it does on him. “He’s quiet until he comes. That’s when he can’t keep his act up.” Well, that’s not new information, yet it’s nothing Stiles wants to hear. He doesn’t want to know anything about Theo’s sex life. Not even a little. He doesn’t want to know how he is in bed. 

“Good for you,” Stiles replies, trying to get past her.

Again, Tracy steps in his way. “I just thought you should know.” 

_ Don’t engage _ , Stiles reminds himself. She just wants a fucking reaction. She wants him to- well, fuck, he doesn’t know what the hell she wants. Tell her Theo loves her? Tell her she is everything Theo cares about? Because she’s not. They can have as much sex as they want to, Stiles just really doesn’t want to know about it. “Listen, if you’re cool with being used, that’s great, but let me give you a head’s up,” he says, nails digging into the cover of his book, “have fun as long as you can because it won’t last. Theo doesn’t care about you. He cares about power. He’ll break your heart because someone will come along who’s much more useful to him.”

So much for not engaging.

Tracy's eyes flash yellow. "You mean nothing to him."

"I don't understand why I'm part of this conversation," Stiles tells her, slowly getting more and more annoyed. The last thing he wants is for anyone to hear what she's talking about. One rumor at a time is more than enough. "If you're worried because he's babysitting me, it was Theo's idea, and he's sleeping on the couch." Why is he defending himself? It's so stupid. Tracy just needs to wake up.

"I'm not going to lose him just because he's obsessed with your power."

Hating himself for it, Stiles takes a step back. She's getting angrier by the second, and Stiles doesn't want to be close when she loses her temper. “I’m really not interested in your relationship drama.” Or in getting into a fight for that matter. His karma has to be tremendously bad because every single time he leaves the house, something goes fucking wrong. It’s as if he’s a magnet for bullshit. 

“I’m not going to lose him to you,” Tracy says, curling her hand into a fist. 

Stiles huffs out a breath. "Get off my case. He's fucking  _ you _ , isn't he?" He waves his hand around, pushes through the ache that comes with learning he's attracted to another person who fucks somebody else. "What else do you want from me? I’m not calling him, I’m not hitting on him, I don’t even want him at the flat. So, as I said, if you’re down to being used, I’m not standing in yo-” he stops mid-sentence when it hits him. 

_ That’s when he can’t keep his act up. _ Stiles thought she was talking about his ever so cool and patronizing behavior. But what if it’s not? What if it’s-

She punches him, hard and unapologetic, confirming his suspicion. Pain explodes behind his eyes, and Stiles stumbles back a few steps, dropping his book to save his rapidly dwindling balance. “ _ Fuck _ .” Despite her threat last Saturday, Stiles didn’t believe she would go through with it, not after Theo’s warning. It looks like Tracy is more of a loose cannon than previously anticipated. Wonderful. Because a jealous affair is precisely what he needs on top of everything else.

Without saying anything else, Tracy walks out of the classroom, leaving Stiles alone with a cocktail of emotions he didn’t ask for. Grinding his teeth, he inspects his cheek in the reflection of the window. It’s red, angry, and tender to the touch. He winces as his fingers brush over the irritated skin. A bit of blood clings to his fingertips. But the pain is irrelevant, as is Tracy’s pain. It doesn’t touch him as it probably should. Although he doesn’t owe her anything, he knows exactly how much it hurts when someone you crush on is interested in somebody else. Yet both are pushed away by the fact that Theo moaned his name.  _ His  _ name. He can’t fake that, right? That means… something. 

Stiles closes his eyes, licks his lips, and tries to push the feelings down again. It doesn’t change anything just because he won a battle Tracy started. But  _ he won _ . It’s the simple, yet undeniable truth. The flood of feelings blindsides him, and Stiles has to lean his face against the cool window, taking a deep breath. He can’t help the grin sneaking onto his lips. Fucking hell. It doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t change anything at all.

His fingers find his cheek again, the sting of pain more intense with his eyes closed. 

“Touching an open wound raises the risk of infection.” 

Stiles opens his eyes. Theo’s reflection smiles at him, and Stiles turns, swallowing around the lump in his throat. His fingertips itch to touch Theo, touch his face, the stubble on his chin and jaw and cheek. He has to remind himself that nothing has changed between them just because Theo thought about him during sex. Taking a steadying breath, Stiles crosses his arms instead. “This is your fucking fault, you know that, right?” He turns away with a frown. 

“Hey,” Theo says, and it’s the gentle tone that stops Stiles from walking away, not the hand on his arm. “Let me see.”

He’ll heal. He’ll be healed before class starts, so it doesn’t matter. “God, screw you, Theo,” Stiles says, but his words lack any heat. 

Maybe that’s why Theo risks pulling him even closer. “Let me see.” He cups Stiles’ cheek with his free hand, thumb brushing over his skin just underneath the bruise - or the bruise-to-be if not for his supernatural healing. Despite himself, Stiles leans into the touch and closes his eyes at the familiar tug on his nerves when Theo takes his pain. “I’ll talk to her.” 

Stiles sighs, trying to ignore the uncomfortable feeling of his skin, knitting itself back together. “You’ll make everything worse.” 

“I will  _ not _ -”

“And how about,” Stiles says, bringing his hands up to push Theo away from him because he has to, because he cannot choose the other option, “you don’t moan my name when you fuck her?” The words feel as if they claw their way out of his throat. Every single one hurts more than Tracy’s punch ever could. Not giving in is the right thing to do, but it hurts so much to know that Theo already has someone to crawl into bed with.

Theo looks just as torn as Stiles feels. “Stiles, I-”

“No, leave me the fuck alone, and deal with your whore.” The words taste bitter on his tongue. Stiles despises himself for saying them, for calling Tracy that. It’s not her fault. It’s not  _ her fucking fault _ Theo plays them both. It’s not her fault they’re both stupid enough to fall for it. 

Anger clouds Theo’s expression. His grip tightens around Stiles’ upper arm, and he doesn’t let go when he tries pulling away. “You’re one to talk,” Theo snarls, eyes burning yellow for a split second. “Don’t play innocent, Stiles.” 

“You’re hurting me.” 

With a growl, Theo lets go of him, watching with bared teeth as Stiles scrambles to get away from him, panicked and angry and confused. This is why he’s unable to get rid of the hesitation, of the doubt, this is why he cannot trust himself around Theo because this is wrong, because he shouldn’t allow someone close who doesn’t mind hurting him every time he’s pissed about something. When Stiles curls a hand around his upper arm, covering  the spot he gripped too hard, Theo seems to have realized what he’s done. “Stiles, I’m-”

“No,” he cuts him off, straightening, “if your chimeras let you get away with this bullshit, that’s on them, but I won’t. You hear me? I  _ won’t _ .” There, that came out exactly as he wanted it. Firm, strong, and without the quiver that desperately wants to sneak into Stiles’ voice. The fact that it’s there in the first place is bad enough. He’ll never forgive himself if Theo hears it. 

Theo swallows. “I’m sorry.”

“Screw you.” 

For the flicker of a second, something crosses over Theo’s features, Stiles hasn’t seen like that before. Only a moment later, his features harden again, shifting into an emotionless mask. “Okay,” he says in an almost defeated tone, “I’ll give you space if that’s what you want.” Theo stays there, looks at him, expecting a response Stiles won’t allow slipping past his lips. With a nod, Theo turns away and walks back to the door tossing Stiles’ textbook on a random desk before vanishing. 

Stiles lets out a shaky breath and hides his face in his hands. 

Kira pokes him gently with her lacrosse stick. “I’m glad you chose to play again.” 

That makes two. Jackson was over the moon when Stiles showed up in the locker room. Good thing he always keeps a clean set of clothes in his locker, or maybe it’s not such a good thing. It depends on how well the practice is going to go. Considering Gabe has it out for him, Stiles doubts it’ll be a great experience, especially considering that the guy is currently defending, and Stiles is on edge ever since his confrontation with Theo. Every little thing causes him to blow up. He even lost his shit in the hallway just because Gabe was clearly trying to get a reaction. The whole point of his and his friend’s reenactment of those stupid pictures was to coax Stiles into doing something stupid, and he did. If Danny hadn’t been there, Stiles would’ve broken his nose. Instead, the whole situation ended up with Gabe banging into his locker, and Mrs. Finch choosing that exact second to come around the corner. Of course, she sent him straight to Natalie. Not the best thing that could’ve happened on his first day back, but she promised not to say anything if he promised to keep his temper in check.

Luckily, he could hide out in the library afterward, but even then. Every noise set his teeth on edge, even the sound of a pen scratching over paper, someone laughing, quiet whispers. Stiles isn’t usually like this. But Theo just- this fucking asshole gets to him. “Yeah,” he says, massaging his upper arm absentmindedly, “Jackson didn’t exactly give me a choice.” 

“Damn straight.” 

Kira looks over her shoulder with a chuckle. These two are truly an odd combination, and Stiles cannot wait to see their relationship unfold. To be fair, he cannot wait to see how Jackson settles back into his old life now that he’s changed - deep down, at the very least. Stiles doesn’t mind the familiar behavior. It’s strangely comforting, and he takes it over everything else. 

“What’s he doing here?” Liam asks from in front of Stiles and nods in the direction of the bleachers. 

_ Oh no _ . Theo sits down a row behind Lydia and Mason. His expression is impossible to read from the distance, but the tense line his shoulders are in speaks for itself. 

“He brought his entourage,” Jackson notes, watching the chimera pack settle on the bleachers. 

Well, not the whole pack. Tracy’s absence is like a ray of sunshine on a rainy day. Which is oddly fitting, seeing that the sky only cleared two hours before lacrosse practice started. The pitch is in the muddiest of conditions, but Stiles’ mood lightens when he sees Hayden and Corey to Theo’s left while Josh is sitting on his right. He wonders what he said to her, if he told her to stay away, or if it was Tracy’s decision. To be perfectly honest, Stiles would be fine with either option. 

Coach’s whistle brings his attention back to what’s happening in front of him. Mud flies into the air when Liam dashes towards the goal. 

“Is he going to stay at yours tonight as well?” Kira asks. 

Stiles twists the lacrosse stick in his hand. Watching Liam easily outsmart Gabe and Scott, he nods. “Yeah, Jordan has his last nightshift,” he replies as Danny catches the shot, “and if Theo is one thing, it’s persistent.” 

Coach whistles again, and Stiles picks the ball off the floor. Gabe is the weaker of the two, although he’s pretty decent when it comes to defensive work, Stiles has to give him that. But in the end, it comes down to werewolf versus human, and he promised Jackson to cheat just enough to make first-line and ensure his position as captain. The guy moved from London back to this hellhole, it’s the least he can do. 

He’s watched Brett play with his opponents often enough to know how to confuse them, and their team sucks enough that he doesn’t need to be half as good as Brett to slip past Gabe without much of a problem. That he doesn’t even have to tap into his kitsune speed would be a mildly disconcerting discovery if he gave a shit about lacrosse. 

Gabe sees the same problem, or perhaps his problem is Stiles himself. The end of a lacrosse stick slams against his ankle. Stiles' foot catches on it, and he's losing his balance quickly. There's nothing to stop himself, so all he can really do is prepare for impact, but he’s not going to go down without at least  _ trying _ to shoot a goal. Struggling to keep his feet underneath him, Stiles adjusts his hands on the lacrosse stick and shoots his shot, then he connects hard with the muddy underground. His elbows connect first, and although he wears protective gear, he can feel it in his bones. The impact knocks the wind out of him. The lacrosse stick clutters away.

Coach’s whistle goes off in the distance. “That’s the spirit!”

He  _ scored.  _ Or Danny let him score. Either way. This is perfect. His shot at the very least went in the correct direction, and that’s all that matters. Even if Danny had caught it. Wonderful. 

"Are you okay?" Scott asks.

Stiles slams his hands onto the ground and pushes to his feet. "I'm fine." He picks up the lacrosse stick and turns, locking eyes with Gabe. This jackass chose the wrong day to mess with him. “I hope you like the view from the bench.” He doesn’t care about lacrosse, but he does enjoy his petty acts of revenge. If it means he has to play first-line, then so be it. Jackson isn’t wrong. A little bit of cheating doesn’t hurt when it leads to winning. 

Scott steps closer. “Stiles-”

“Fuck you,” Gabe spits.

"No, thank you." Stiles keeps his voice slow, steady, and unwavering. "You're not my type."

Throwing his lacrosse stick to the ground, Gabe advances on him. "You piece of shit."

Stiles curls his hands around the lacrosse stick, his body poised to attack. Maybe it's the lack of sleep, maybe it's his frustration with Theo and everything going on, maybe it's just Gabe fucking up his temper, but Stiles allows a smirk to curl around his lips as he stares the other down, unimpressed by the inches the other boy has on him. He  _ hopes _ Gabe will make a move, just so he can fight back, just so he can break his fucking face. 

Coach yelling at them from a distance is probably the only thing that keeps Gabe from punching him.

It’s Scott who gets in-between them, but it's Stiles he pulls away by his upper arm. “Stop it.” 

“Oh, fuck you.” Stiles pushes him away with his elbow, yanking his arm out of his grip. Part of him wishes he’d be surprised that Scott chose to talk to him, that Scott somehow thought that he should be the one told off even though Gabe clearly started it. Not that he’s going to mention that. He isn’t a kindergartener needing to point fingers. 

With a little shake of his head, Scott regards him almost sternly. “You’re better than that.” 

“No,” Stiles shoots back, curling his lips, “I’m not, and I don’t  pretend that I am, Scott.” Deliberately bumping into Gabe, he walks away from both of them feeling equally satisfied and disappointed. Disappointed because he would’ve enjoyed yanking Gabe off his high horse. Satisfied because there’s no guilt crawling up his spine after disappointing Scott. He’s done with that, done living up to impossible standards, done putting others in front of him. If it’s not his fault, he’s not going to make it his job to fix it. So, if Gabe thinks he can run all over him because he takes lacrosse a bit too seriously, he’ll have to deal with the consequences. People need to learn that he’s not a fucking doormat. He’s not going to be used, he’s not going to be kept small, and he’s not going to ignore other peoples’ bullshit any longer; not Scott’s, not Gabe’s, and especially not Theo’s. 

“Slow and steady now,” Satomi says, folding her hands on her left thigh. “Think it,  _ picture  _ it.” 

Brett throws a slice of tangerine in his mouth. “Yeah, make that rope your bitch.” 

Despite himself, Stiles snorts out a laugh, and the rope drops back onto the table like a deadweight. That much he’s learned, the second he’s distracted, whatever magic he’s casting dies the very same second. Which is just super for someone like him. Stiles has no idea how he’ll ever be successful at this. 

Jordan sighs. “You’re not helping.” 

After plopping the last slice in his mouth, Brett grins. “I’m not used to being a cheerleader.” 

“Just shut up,” Isaac tells him, catching the tangerine Kira tosses him. All three of them have a questionable obsession with tangerines, that much is obvious. 

Satomi gestures towards the rope. “Again.” 

Nodding, Stiles takes a deep breath. He can’t help but be a bit pissed off at himself. When he had to use mountain ash back in the day, he did it on his first try. It just worked. No ifs, no buts, no struggles. Now, he’s this useless idiot who makes a rope float or jiggle. Both are better than ripping it, but it’s not the goal. What did he do differently back then? Nothing, right? He had the powder in his hand, he closed his eyes, and he did it.

Wait. 

He had the powder in his hand. 

Stiles reaches for the rope and lays it in the palms of his hands. If touching it does the trick, he’s going to take that as a win. Once he has the hang of this, he can work his way up to silently staring at shit. At this point, even baby steps are progress.  Today, he will not give up until he’s solved this problem. He’s going to unknot this rope, no matter how long it is going to take him. Closing his eyes, Stiles focuses on the soft humming in his veins and the rope in his hands. 

“Okay,” Stiles whispers, shifting in his seat. “Okay.”

Taking another breath, Stiles pushes everything else from his mind, focusing on the rope in his hand. Its weight, its rough texture, and most importantly, the heavy knot sitting on his hands. No. Not the knot. The ends of the rope. He can’t force the knot to untie itself from the inside out, but he did try that, so, of course, he tore the stupid thing apart. 

Has he really been defeated by logic all this time?

Stiles places the knot in his left hand and wraps his fingers around the right end of the rope. This is how he solves the problem. It's not just magic, it's  _ logic _ , and he's good at that. He's good at solving problems. 

The weight of the heavy knot lifts off his hand, but he can still feel the ghost of a touch against his skin. For a moment, the end of the rope twitches then slips through his fingers.  _ Yes _ . Stiles opens his eyes to watch it unfold, watch as both ends of the rope are slowly pulled back towards the knot, as everything works backward because he told it to. 

“Holy shit,” he breathes.

Kira beams at him. 

The rope straightens and hovers in the air for a few seconds before dropping in a pile onto his thighs. “I did it!” Stiles exclaims, fist-bumping the air because  _ finally _ . Day three, and he got it right. It was about fucking time. 

Isaac high-fives him, and Brett uses the chance to steal his tangerine. 

Satomi nods. “I want you to practice with little things as often as you can. It shouldn’t take long until it becomes second nature.” 

“How come?” Jordan asks. 

“Kitsunes have a steep learning curve,” Noshiko answers, entering the room, and places a hand on Kira’s shoulder. “Once we have a feeling for our fox, everything comes naturally to us.” Makes sense, kind of. Kira learned how to wield a katana insanely fast. 

There’s just one tiny problem. “Well, but I’m not really a kitsune, am I?” 

Noshiko offers him a small smile. “The fox and the magic the ley lines offer you are one. Neither can exist without the other. That means if you can control one, you will be able to control the other.” To be honest, that’s hard to believe. Mostly because it would be the one good thing after one shitstorm after the other. “And since you can control your magic now, you should be able to handle the bo staff Ken created for you.” 

_ Nice _ . “Where is it?” 

“You call it.”

Stiles squints at Satomi. “I call it?”

Isaac exchanges a quick glance with Brett, who shrugs, too invested in rolling the tangerine back and forth on the palm of his hand. It must be riveting.

“Don’t worry. It is made out of parts of the nemeton,” Satomi explains with a smile. “It’ll come to you if you need it.” 

That’s not quite as reassuring as they might think it is, but they’re both very relaxed about it. So, Stiles trusts them on their word, and if they’re right, Stiles shouldn’t be running into a lot of trouble with that any longer. Which would be preferable, to be honest. Stiles is already loving magic.  _ A lot _ . It would be a bummer if it deserts him when he needs it the most. “Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome.” 

Satomi crosses her legs. “There isn’t much more I can teach you,” she says, and Stiles places the tanbō on his thighs, “so I will do so briefly. Magic has rules.” As everything has in the supernatural world. The balance slowly makes more and more sense, the more he learns about everything. He wishes they’d bothered doing so earlier on. How many problems could they have avoided if they bothered to study the rules of the supernatural world instead of running around like headless chickens? “You can use your surroundings for creation and destruction, but you cannot manifest anything that doesn’t already exist. The ley lines will not allow such a disruption to the balance.”

"Hate to break it to you," Brett says, tossing the unpeeled tangerine from one hand to the other with the enthusiasm of a dead slug, "but that means murder is off the table as well."

Stiles contemplates the rope in his hand before dropping it with a sigh. "And there goes my Friday night."

Groaning in frustration, Isaac buries his face in a pillow while Jordan is massaging his temples. “Please,” the latter mutters, “can you two take this seriously?”

“I  _ am _ ,” they say in unison, although Brett is clearly much more offended by the statement. They’re all a bit sensible, probably because they’ve spent way too much time together in the last few days. “Okay,” Stiles waves his hand around, “I’m sorry, and I have a question. So, I can’t kill anyone?” 

Satomi shakes her head. “The ley lines neither support murder nor resurrection.” 

_ Huh _ . Good to know. But he did severely hurt Theo. In fact, he did break his neck. Wouldn’t that count as killing? Unless maybe it doesn’t count because he can’t be killed like that. “And there’s no way around that?”

“There can be accidents, but as soon as the ley lines notice an inclination to kill, they will refuse to cooperate.” Because the nemeton exists to keep the balance. 

Stiles nods. “Okay, so, basically, light weakens me, darkness does the opposite.” As pain does, probably, but he can’t tell, and he sure as hell won’t mention it right now because there still is the risk that Satomi and Noshiko don’t know. If that’s the case, there’s a reason for that. Stiles really doesn’t want to make this awkward. Not when they’re all getting along so well. “I cannot kill someone or bring them back to life, and I can’t create stuff out of thin air.” He scratches the back of his head. “Did I miss something?” 

Shaking her head, Satomi straightens. “That would be it for now.” 

“Cool, okay… thanks.” Stiles can’t believe he did it. He actually managed to accomplish something in the supernatural department. It feels like it took him forever, when in truth, he learned all this in less than a week. The nemeton died barely six days ago, and Stiles went from nothing to being in tune with the ley lines, to finding his own balance, to using magic. 

Things are finally looking up. Here’s to hoping it stays that way, at least for a little while. 


	29. one step closer

His dad already plans to go back to work, although he’s not coming home before Wednesday next week. His doctors don’t want to see him back in the office before the beginning of December, but Stiles can already tell that’s not going to happen. He’ll be lucky if he can keep him home until November. Well, at the very least, they made an appointment at Eichen. More or less. His dad decided that they should go tomorrow after school, and in case of something going wrong, Jordan and Valerie will pick them up. Even though Valack can hardly be trusted, he's not stupid enough to do anything reckless with the police involved. 

“So,” Jordan says, poking his fries with his fork, “when are you going to tell me what’s going on between you and Theo?” 

All Stiles can do is try not to choke on his own curly fries. “What?” he asks, coughing quietly, and reaches for his drink. “Theo and- there’s- what?” 

“I’m 24,” Jordan says with an unimpressed raise of his left eyebrow, “not 42, although I’m pretty sure even someone at 89 can see it.”

“See what?” Stiles doesn’t like where this conversation is headed, not even a little. Nothing good ever comes from a conversation that starts with ‘when are you going to tell me about-’ because that’s always in regards to something you really don’t want anybody to know. Although granted, this time, it’s more the other way around. Because Stiles really doesn’t want to know what Jordan sees. It’s hard enough as it is already to keep his defenses up around Theo, he doesn’t need anything more that might push him over the edge. He _wants_ to give in. He really does. The guy is hot as all hell, and Theo doesn’t even try to pretend that he’s not into Stiles.

Yet this tiny little voice in the back of his mind just refuses to allow him to give in because it could all be a fucking act. He hopes it’s not an act, he starts to doubt that it is an act, but he can’t shake it. Not completely. He just doesn’t want to be used. Not again. Not ever. 

Jordan places his fork down and pushes his almost empty tray in the middle of the table. “The way he looks at you when you’re not looking at him,” he explains after a pause, and he seems torn about the whole situation. “He always has this look on his face when he watches you. Whether you’re talking or baking pierogies for the entire department.” Jordan is never going to let him live that down. It was the first thing he told Stiles’ dad today, who reacted both amused and worried. His dad knows better than anyone what excessive baking means when it comes to the Gajos family.

Stiles clears his throat. “Power-hungry? Greedy?”

Jordan’s features shift into a scowl. “Content. _Fond_.” He pauses, scowl deepening for a second. “He did kiss you.” 

“Can you stop bringing that up?” Stiles asks, shifting uncomfortably on his chair, and looks around as if anybody in this half-empty diner is interested in his non-existent love life. “And Theo… in general.” He shoves another couple curly fries into his mouth, mirroring Jordan’s expression. 

Jordan crosses his arms on the table. “You’re often alone with him. I just thought that maybe you should be aware-”

“It was a misunderstanding,” Stiles interrupts him, ignoring the obvious question arising from his statement. Kissing someone can hardly be a simple misunderstanding, but it’s the only argument he has, and he is going to run with it; however far he needs to. “Theo didn’t- he wouldn’t do anything like that.” Whatever _that_ exactly means. Yes, Theo overstepped boundaries. Yes, Stiles wanted and didn’t want him to.

After a moment of silence, Jordan leans back on the bench, shaking his head a little. “You’re defending him after everything he did?”

“No, Jay, come on.” Stiles pushes his own food away, not really hungry any longer, and massages his temple. “Theo did so much, I’d rat him out the second he so much as thinks about doing something shady. Why do you think I wouldn’t?” 

Jordan’s expression softens. “Because it’s a sensitive topic.” The words cause a bad aftertaste in Stiles’ mouth. “I just need you to know you can talk to me. Always, and about everything.” He leans forward again and places a hand on Stiles’ forearm, squeezing it slightly. 

The thing is, Stiles _wants_ to talk about everything. He wants to talk about his conflicting feelings for Theo, but he can’t help but feel like a fucking idiot for even having them. “I know,” he says anyway, although the last thing he wants to do is say out loud what he’s struggling with. Not necessarily because Jordan wouldn’t understand, but because saying it would finally make it real. As long as he keeps it in his head, it’s nothing more than a fever dream. “I told you about Donovan, didn’t I?” 

Jordan nods, slow at first, then more fiercely. “Yeah, yeah. You did.” There’s a pause, almost as if he knows exactly that Stiles is keeping something from him. The atmosphere is tense, and only after Jordan took a sip of his coffee as well as a weirdly strained smile, he says, “how are things going at school?” His words are too light. 

Stiles hates everything about this. “The usual,” he replies, playing along, wondering if perhaps he should talk to Jordan. Maybe making it real is exactly what he needs, and being attracted to Theo can’t be as bad as accidentally killing someone, right? _Right_? “Gabe and his buddies are a nuisance, but it’s nothing bad.”

“If it ever gets too bad-”

“I will tell you.”

“Good,” Jordan says with a nod and a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, “because I’m not above throwing on my uniform to tell some parents their kids are harassing you.” 

Stiles snorts out a laugh, feeling the air around them lighten significantly. “Thanks, but I can defend myself.” He grabs his drink and contemplates it for a second. “I don’t need my big brother swooping in to save the day,” he continues then, poking the plastic cup once then twice, and pauses to give his words a second to sink in. “That doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate that he has my back.” Another pause. Stiles briefly glances at Jordan’s perfectly neutral face. “I bet he would too.” 

Jordan’s mouth thins, and he grabs his coffee to take another swig. They haven’t spoken about it for a while now. Maybe it’s not really Stiles’ decision, he still thinks it’s a topic they can’t let die. _He_ won’t be able to let it die. If Jordan has a brother, they both deserve to find each other. Jordan, however, seems to think differently. He shakes his head and mutters, “I don’t think so.” 

Furrowing his brows, Stiles pushes his dinner out of the way and crosses his arms on the table. “You won’t know if you don’t try. Maybe he’s looking for you too.” 

“He might not even know I exist,” Jordan reminds him, running a hand through his hair. That’s fair. He’s been back in the states with his dad before his brother was born, but would his mother keep something this essential from her youngest son? It’s so hard to imagine. There have to have been pictures, right? Something. _Anything_. 

Stiles taps his fingers against the table. “But- but he deserves to know, doesn’t he?”

“ _Stiles_ -”

“No, listen, Jay,” he interrupts him, inching closer to the table. “This is the least I can do for you. You’re keeping my ass even though I’ve been terrible. Let me find your brother. Then you can decide if you want to meet him or not.” 

Excitement looks very different, but Jordan doesn’t decline it immediately either. In fact, the contemplative curls of his lips tell him that he is actually considering it, which is a good sign. Probably. “I’ll think about it.” 

Stiles can’t help the smile. “Okay.” 

“Okay,” Jordan repeats, and albeit not smiling, he doesn’t seem completely turned off by the opportunity to meet his only other living relative for the first time in his life. Reaching for his cup again, he checks his watch. “Oh, shit. We gotta go.” Jordan gets to his feet and empties his coffee. “You have to pack a bag. You’re staying the night at Theo’s.” 

_What the fuck_? “Wait- why?” That’s not right. Jordan can’t send him into the lion’s den. 

“He said it’s safer because his whole pack can protect you.”

As if Tracy would ever protect him. She’d probably seize the chance to throw him at Donovan. “I can defend myself now.” 

Jordan gestures for him to get up with a pointed glare. “I rather have you staying with the whole pack than alone with Theo,” he says, jabbing his finger towards the exit. “Let’s go.” 

Biting the inside of his cheek, Stiles stares up at the dark mansion in the outskirts of Beacon Hills. It’s dark already, and although a lot of lights are on inside the house, it has a strange aura of foreboding. The dark forest behind it is probably not helping. Knowing what is waiting for him inside the house does nothing to calm his nerves. For some reason, Stiles feels terribly nervous about stepping in there, as if doing so will change something irrevocably. Seeing that Theo has gone back to his roots, instead of living in the house his fake parents bought, knowing that he has dropped every last of his pretenses, it’s like a statement, like a call. _Come and see me_. 

Of course, Stiles is most likely overreacting. There are logical explanations as to why Theo moved into his childhood home - to spite his real parents, because it offers enough space for the whole pack, because it’s convenient since the Raekens left everything they owned behind. 

“If anything comes up-”

Stiles startles, almost surprised that Jordan is sitting next to him, and nods. “I’ll call you,” he says, curling his fingers around the strap of his gym bag. “I promise. And you said it yourself, the more, the merrier.” Even though Stiles isn’t quite sure if that counts for the chimera pack as well. He doubts Theo is bothered by their presence. If he wants to make a move, he will make a move. 

Glancing at the house, Jordan shakes his head. “I can’t believe your dad agreed to this.” 

“You and me both,” Stiles says, pushing open the passenger’s door. With a sinking feeling, he eyes the mansion once more before turning back to Jordan and taps the hood of his car. “Be careful. See you tomorrow.” 

Jordan nods. “You too. See you tomorrow.” 

Stiles nods and slams the door shut then turns towards Theo’s childhood home before he gives in and begs Jordan to take him to the station. It wouldn’t be the first night he spends in his dad’s office, but he doesn’t want to be a coward. He can deal with Theo. He’s done it before. Nothing changes just because they’re on his turf now, and he may or may not have moaned his name while fucking Tracy. 

Taking another deep breath, Stiles walks up the driveway, dragging his feet, and isn’t particularly surprised when Theo opens the door before he even has the chance to knock. “Hey,” Theo says, sounding too upbeat for their whole situation. 

“Is this really necessary?”

Theo steps aside. “Donovan is still out there.” 

“You’re not gonna give up. Ever. Do you?” Stiles asks, pushing past him.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spots a smile. It’s much happier than smug, which is rather confusing. “You should know the answer by now.” Amusement dances in his tone, but even that is rather unusual. It’s not like Theo not to enjoy having won. Basically. Although he didn’t really win anything. 

“I hoped you’d get the hint, but I was clearly mistaken.” Stiles stops in the hallway, trying not to look around too much. “You said you would give me space.” He glances at Theo again, before giving in to his curiosity, and takes his surroundings in. The hallway is dark and impersonal. No pictures, but clear marks on the wall where pictures used to be. There’s a mirror, facing the wall eerily, and a simple decorative dresser with a set of keys on the top. Stiles wonders if the chimeras can come and go as they please. 

Stiles briefly glances down the hallway then up the stairs before turning around to Theo, raising his brows in question. 

“Well,” he says, gesturing for Stiles to walk down the hall, “I decided to take on a different approach.” Theo smiles again, and something about the sincerity of his expression is truly unsettling. Almost more than his words. Placing a hand on the small of Stiles’ back, Theo gently nudges him towards the right as soon as they step into the living room. It’s a large room, large enough that the Raekens split it into a living and a dining room. It’s just as empty and impersonal as the hallway made Stiles believe it would be. No pictures. No decoration. It’s cold in here despite the early fall’s still relatively warm temperatures. A movie plays on the large TV, but that doesn’t capture his attention too long. Theo nudges him again. “I’ve prepared a peace offering,” he says, pointing towards the dining table. 

Scrutinizing the plastic bags warily, Stiles pulls out a chair and sits down. “You ordered food.” 

“I did,” Theo agrees, sitting down opposite him. 

Stiles clears his throat. Part of him is glad that he can say it because this situation feels kind of weird, but for some reason, he feels a bit bad at the same time, “I already ate with Jordan.” 

For a moment, Theo’s face falls. It lasts hardly longer than the fraction of a second, and he’s quick enough to regain his composure. “I bought a dessert as well, and I got you this.” Theo reaches for an upside-down picture frame on the table and pushes it towards Stiles. “Good thing I’m resourceful.” 

Studying Theo, Stiles reaches for the picture. He dimly recognizes the frame itself, but can’t quite remember where he’s seen it before. As it turns out, he saw it not too long ago. It’s the picture Kira found in the basement. Right. He totally forgot about it when he left to get to his dad to confront him about Peter Hale’s payments. “Did you break into my house?” 

“I thought you might want to have it.” 

He does. Stiles wasn’t aware of how much. “Thank you.” 

A smile tugs on Theo’s lips. “You’re welcome.” 

To be this known by Theo Raeken is equally unnerving as desirable. Stiles does his best to keep to himself because having people know about his thoughts and feelings is far too dangerous in his life. It means they know his weaknesses. It means they can easily figure out a way to get to him. But Theo is on his side, at least for now, and maybe, just maybe, he really does want him. 

Clearing his throat, Stiles places the frame to his right. He swallows and makes an all-encompassing gesture in the direction of the table. “What- uh-” shit, he doesn’t know how to phrase this without sounding like a total douchebag “-what is this supposed to be?” Because it feels entirely too weird.

Theo quirks a brow. “An apology.” 

“This doesn’t feel like just an apology.” 

Almost curiously, Theo tips his head to the side and studies him. Stiles can’t decide if this is a deliberate decision, so he would be the one to say out loud what he thinks this is, or if Theo honestly doesn’t know what this feels like. He has to see what this looks like. The food. The time. The fact that they’re alone, although Stiles can hear the other chimeras roaming upstairs. This isn’t just an apology. It feels like a fucking date, and Theo did this on purpose. 

Right?

“I overstepped a line earlier today,” Theo says, again sounding strangely sincere, “and I wanna make up for it. That’s all.” 

“Oh, come on, Theo.” Stiles doesn’t mean the words to come out as sharp as they did. He doesn’t want to be pissed at Theo. He really doesn’t, but he has been a bundle of nerves the whole fucking day, and it doesn’t seem to be changing anytime soon. “You’re not that removed from reality. Everything that’s missing is a fucking candle and rose petals on the ground.” Despite everything, he doesn’t allow himself to say the word _date_ out loud. Mainly because he doesn’t want to give Theo any ideas. 

Shaking his head, Theo leans back in his chair. “This isn’t a non-consensual date, okay? I was just trying to do something nice after being a dick at school. That’s all there is to it.” Theo curls his lips into a tight line, then slams his hands on the table and gets to his feet. “It doesn’t matter anyway because you fucking ate already.” 

_Fuck_. Fuck, _fuck_. This is not what he wanted. Stiles opens his mouth, gnashes his teeth, and takes a deep breath through his nose. “Come on,” he tries, forcing his voice to be as light as possible, “it’s past eight, you can’t expect Jordan not to have fed me by now.” 

Theo stares at him. 

Okay, that did not work. Rubbing the nape of his neck, Stiles coughs quietly. This is not what was supposed to happen. He didn't want Theo to think that he thought this whole thing felt like a date to him. It isn't a date. Of course, it isn't. Why would it be? _Fuck_ , he feels so stupid now. "I- uhm," Stiles starts, swallowing around the lump in his throat, "what's for dessert?"

For a moment, Theo keeps staring at him with this hard to read expression, but then he sits down and pushes a brown bag towards him. 

Stiles eyes it a second, unsure what to expect. After another glance at Theo, he opens it. "Oh my god," Stiles breathes, feeling his bad mood evaporate upon spotting the content, "you bought paczki. Are you serious? Where did you find them?" His grandmother always complains about the lack of Polish baked goods in and around Beacon Hills. 

Theo's lips curl into a familiar smirk. "And here I thought curly fries would be the highlight of your evening."

"Are you kidding me?" Stiles waves his hand around and opens the bag further. "This is- fuck me, I haven't had any in years. Did you try them?" He turns the bag towards Theo, jiggling it a little. "You have to try them."

His shoulders move with a chuckle. "I would like to have dinner first."

"Oh, _please,_ " Stiles says, jiggling the bag again, "breakfast for dinner, dessert before the main course. Who cares?" He grins at Theo, allowing himself to be comfortable, to remember the boy he used to know. Maybe, just maybe, that boy is still in there.

Theo laughs again, then pulls out a paczki. "I trust you on this."

"You better," Stiles replies, dropping one onto his plate as well. "Once you try them, you won't accept anything else for dessert." Perhaps this evening isn't going to be as terrible as he thought it would be, and no matter what that implicates, Stiles takes this over everything else that could possibly happen. 

"Video games and movies, huh?" Stiles glances over his shoulder, meeting Theo's eye with a grin. Although the whole dinner thing ended up relatively relaxed, perhaps because they kept to safe topics like school or general supernatural related things, the second the rest of the pack joined them, the atmosphere shifted again. Stiles can't tell if it's because of the general situation, because of him, or because of Tracy not trying to hide how much she hates everything going on right now. 

Theo tugs at the blanket, covering Stiles’ legs. “Told you, normal teenager things.”

“Uh-huh.”

Tracy scoffs. “I have better ideas for a normal teenager evening.”

Hayden sighs and shifts into a cross-legged position, bumping her knee against Stiles’ shoulder. She looks down at him, muttering an apology, but Stiles waves her off. Even with Corey and Josh sitting on the ground, the sofa doesn’t offer enough space with two teenagers lying down. After dinner, they resettled on the couch, starting the rest of the evening with one of the worst-rated horror movies they could find. Theo sat down in the middle of the couch, offering not many options for Stiles. He had the chance to sit down next to him or lie down on the recamier. He chose the latter option. That way, he, at the very least, can have a bit of distance between them. 

Tracy was the first who joined them, followed almost immediately by Hayden, who probably expected a disaster in the making. She sat down next to Stiles’ head, whereas Tracy had chosen to lounge next to Theo. She leaned against him at first but Theo pushed her off almost immediately. The sense of satisfaction still warms Stiles from the inside, and he allows himself to bath in it for a little while longer. 

“Nobody cares,” Josh announces, trying, and clearly failing to get through the video game he’s playing alive. It was his idea to play it, and Stiles is still surprised Theo let him take the wheel and make the decision for all of them. 

“You’re a piece of shit, you know that, right?” Tracy spits, throwing a pillow at Josh. 

Corey catches it before it has the chance to hit his friend. A flicker of annoyance crosses over his face as he turns around to look at her. It’s the most negative reaction he has seen on his face. To be honest, Stiles didn’t expect that. Sure, he imagined that perhaps they’ve built fickle relationships by now, but Josh and Corey seem to be a lot closer to each other than the rest of the pack. 

“Why?” Josh asks, drawing his eyebrows together in concentration, “because you want Stiles to know you had sex with Theo?” 

Hayden covers her face, but Corey nudges Josh with his elbow. 

“Oh, don’t worry,” Stiles says, propping his chin on his hand, “Tracy informed about her sex-life. Now, I now know more than I want to.” 

There’s another tug on the blanket, and a moment later, warm fingers curl around his ankle. A shudder runs down his spine. Stiles closes his eyes, tries to ignore the warm and soft feeling it elicits. It’s so strange, so fucking strange, but he can’t pull his leg from Theo’s loose grip either. 

“And, you’re dead,” Hayden says, leaning forward to gesture for the controller, “come on, Josh, give it up. You suck.” 

Although he mutters under his breath, Josh gives in and tosses the controller in Hayden’s general direction. Her supernatural reaction protects Stiles from getting smacked in the face by it. She chuckles, and he snorts out a laugh. 

“ _Josh_ ,” Theo warns.

Confused, Josh turns around, clearly not realizing what he has done. The fact that he’s so utterly unaware of his surroundings despite being a somewhat supernatural creature is quite telling. Since their main component is werewolf DNA, there should be some sense of pack, some sense of awareness of those around him. He remembers the Hale pack. Even in the beginning, even when they were all new to being a werewolf, Erica, Isaac, and Boyd craved physical contact. They craved each other’s proximity. They constantly spent time with and found each other. The chimera pack is spread all over the living room, sitting as far away from each other as they possibly could, with the exception of Josh and Corey. 

Stiles turns to look at Theo. “You don’t do this a lot, do you?”

Theo raises his brows. “Play video games?”

“Hang out.”

Josh leans back onto his elbows. “Nope.” He stiffens visibly and turns around. “I- I mean- uh-”

“Just stop talking,” Theo says, dragging his thumb over Stiles’ ankle. Tracy probably hasn’t noticed it yet, Josh, on the other hand, seems to have spotted Theo’s hand vanishing underneath the edge of Stiles’ blanket. If he realizes what that means, he doesn’t say anything. He just turns back around to face the TV. 

Stiles runs a hand through his hair. “You know a pack is stronger the better their bond is, right?” 

A grunt comes from the direction of the TV, and Hayden cusses quietly. 

“Sure,” Theo says after a pause. 

“Uh-huh,” Stiles drawls, rolling his eyes. It’s not particularly surprising if he’s being honest. All Theo heard was that a pack is stronger than the lone wolf, yet he doesn’t even have a single clue why that’s even the case. “Well, good. Then you should be practically invincible because you all like each other so much.”

Hayden shifts uncomfortably next to him and clears her throat. Corey and Josh exchange a quick glance. Theo merely scoffs. Tracy is quiet, or at the very least, her reaction is because Stiles can’t see her from where he lies, facing the TV. 

“You don’t have to be supernatural to break a pack apart,” Stiles says, tapping his finger against his cheek. “I mean, you’re a specialist, aren’t you, Theo? What do you say? Start with the weakest link and then work your way up the ladder?” That’s how hunters do it, how the Argent tried to get to Derek, how Theo tore apart their pack. Find the weakest link, dig your fingers in, and rip it to pieces. 

Theo’s grip tightens for a brief second around his ankle then he draws invisible circles into his skin. “And how would you ruin us?” 

Stiles doesn’t answer immediately, pretending to think, although the answer is plain as day. The chimera pack offers a lot of attack surface. Most of it, they serve on a silver platter, and the weakest link has a neon sign right over her head. Crossing his arms on the sofa, Stiles turns to look at Theo again. “I’d start with Tracy.” 

Pushing away from the cushions, she bares her teeth in a growl. 

Theo merely raises a hand to stop her. “Who’d you go after next?” 

“Hayden’s sister,” he says, and the music of the game cuts off almost immediately. Stiles can feel her eyes on her. 

“Interesting choice.” 

“Not really, it’s the obvious one.” Stiles sits up and pulls his legs towards him, shifting in a cross-legged position too. He tries not to think about the loss of Theo’s touch too much. “Hayden would separate from the pack to protect her sister. It would leave her all by herself.” Sure, Liam would be there as well as Jordan, but if he only takes the pack itself into account, he could take them apart within a single week. They’re all loners pretending to be a pack. 

Theo contemplates him quietly. His face is hard to read. “Still three left.” 

Stiles holds his gaze. “I’d attack Corey and go after you.” 

“Me?”

“You,” Stiles says, unable to hide the smile curling around his lips. “If it comes down to it, Josh would protect Corey, and you’d be alone.” 

Theo narrows his eyes slightly, but it’s not quite anger. He’s offended, that’s for sure. That Stiles considers him as anything else but the strongest and most fearsome member of this pack most definitely hurts his ego more than he would ever admit out loud. “I can defend myself.” 

“You’d be alone. That makes you an easy target.” 

Another silence follows his words. Long, heavy, almost uncomfortable. Tracy interrupts it with a snarl. “How dare-”

“Train us,” Theo says, sounding disconcertingly sincere in his request. That’s the last thing he would’ve expected to hear. To be honest, Stiles expected a scoff, maybe even arguments as to why he’s wrong. He would’ve even accepted laughter. This reaction, however, throws him off. 

Leaning forward, Tracy reaches for Theo. “We don’t nee-”

“Shut up,” Josh interrupts, turning fully around now. “Train us.” 

Stiles raises his brows and glances from Josh back to Theo. He appreciates the trust in him, he really does, but there's a completely different problem. "Why should I do that?"

"Because we're protecting you," Theo reminds him, crossing his arms over his thighs. His eyes light up, almost as if he wants to challenge Stiles into something, and he curls his lips into a small smirk. 

Everyone is looking at him. Stiles can feel their gazes like breathing on his neck. It’s hard to figure out what they want, what they expect, and how loyal they’d be if Stiles went out of his way to rip into Theo’s inability to be a leader. He doesn’t. Not now, anyway. For some reason, Stiles is sure he’ll have a lot of time doing so. “I can protect myself too.” 

“Just because you can play with a stick, doesn’t mean you can fight.” 

Rolling his eyes, Stiles looks at Tracy. He’s met a lot of people in his life, a lot of different people, but he never met someone who has pissed him off quite as consistently as she manages to do on a regular basis - and he usually has a pretty short temper. “I’m surprisingly good with a stick. I’d even say I’m a natural.” Stiles smirks, and Tracy narrows her eyes. “I don’t even have to play to be better than you, and that’s what pisses you off, isn’t it?” 

Theo shoots him a look, eyebrows drawn together, and shakes his head once. Tracy, however, slams her hands on the couch and jumps to her feet. For a few seconds, she stands there, fists pressed against her hips. She looks as if she’s about ready to lurch across the table and throttle him. Something Theo notices as well if his quiet growl is anything to go by. Without another word, Tracy spins around and rushes out of the door. 

Josh clears his throat. “Are we… still talking about Stiles’ fighting skills?” 

“Keep playing your video games, Josh,” Theo tells him, leaning back into the cushions, and pretends as if nothing happened at all. Responsibility really isn’t his cup of tea, is it? After all, it’s Theo’s fault Tracy is acting up in the first place. 

Shaking his head, Stiles leans back as well, nudging Hayden gently. She glances at him and nods with a weak smile, then unpauses the game and keeps playing. 

Stiles watches Theo throw a pillow onto an uncomfortable-looking air mattress. “You know there’s a perfectly good couch I can sleep on?” 

“Yeah,” Theo drawls, yanking his shirt over his head, “a perfectly good couch that’s too far away.” 

Wrapping his own blanket around him, Stiles averts his eyes. Instead, he focuses on the chest underneath the window. Like the rest of the Raeken mansion, Theo's bedroom is cold and impersonal. No pictures or posters. The most personal stuff are the books stacked on his desk and an empty easel in the corner of the room. But ever since he spotted the chest, Stiles can't help but think that's where Theo keeps the things that are important to him, and knowing what's important to him, means figuring him out, means being able to stop him in case things end up turning messy. 

Stiles massages the nape of his neck. "Pretty sure your superior hearing will alert you in case someone tries to break into your house."

"I'm not too worried about Donovan," Theo replies, untying his boots. 

This is the worst. Can't he just get undressed in the bathroom like a normal person? Why does he have to put Stiles through this kind of torture? He clears his throat and traces the checked pattern on the bedding. "You think Tracy would do something that reckless?"

"I'd like to think that she's smarter than that.” Theo throws his jeans over the desk chair and lies down. “After earlier today, I’m not so sure,” he adds with a scowl. Instead of pulling his blanket over him, Theo crosses his arms behind his back and stares at the ceiling, probably knowing full well what he is doing and loving every fucking second of it. 

Stiles scoffs and falls onto his back, pulling his own blanket up to his chest. “Really, I mean, heartbreak? Can’t be that bad, am I right?” 

A sigh precedes Theo’s words. “That’s not what I said.” 

“Well, it’s not as if you’re innocent. After all, you fucked her _and_ moaned my name.” 

“Are you still on about that?” It’s not hard to hear Theo rolling his eyes at this point. That either means, they have spent far too much time together in the last couple days, or he’s much more familiar with that stupid chimera than he would like to be. Not that these things are mutually exclusive. Or bad. In fact, it’s quite nice to get back into predicting what Theo is doing after losing touch with this ability for the last couple weeks. 

Stiles sits back up, although he definitely should know better than to look at an almost naked Theo Raeken. “How can I not be? I just learned about it today, and- and-”

Quirking a brow, Theo pushes himself up on his elbows. “And?” 

It’s really hard not to throw a pillow at this smug piece of shit. “Can you please give me a 24-hour recovery period? That was a lot to take in.” 

Theo huffs out a breath. It does sound a little like a laugh, which isn’t particularly surprising. Of course, the guy would find this situation hilarious. “I don’t know why you’re so surprised.” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Stiles mutters, running his hands over his face with a quiet groan. He hates this. He doesn’t want to talk about this, but he also feels as if he should. Some things become easier when said out loud. Not all things, but this might. This might help clear the air. “Maybe because it’s not an everyday occurrence to moan the name of somebody else while fucking their girlfriend.” 

“She’s not my girlfriend.” 

Never, not once in a million years, Stiles is going to admit that he hoped Theo chose this exact reply. “So, you just-” he waves his hand around, trying to understand, trying to wrap his head around what he wants to say “- you just fuck her, although you know-”

“I already told you,” Theo says, his features darkening precariously when he turns his head towards him, “that I do stupid things when I’m jealous.” 

Stiles shakes his head and falls back onto the pillow. _Jealous_ . Jealous of _what_? Brett taking his pain? Stiles presses the balls of his hands to his eyes and squeezes them shut. This fucking topic is driving him insane. He can’t think about it. He doesn’t want to think about it. 

“Speechless, huh?” Theo asks, and the mattress makes a quiet noise when he is lying back down. “That’s a new look on you.” Very funny. _Very fucking funny_. “Listen, it happened. I can’t take it back. I’m- all I can say is that I’m loyal to you and you only.”

“Loyal?” Stiles can’t help but bark out a laugh. “Theo, you gotta check on that word in the dictionary because I doubt you have no idea what that means.” This conversation is getting more ridiculous by the second. He doesn’t know what to say, or what Theo wants him to say. Stiles can’t even tell what he wants Theo to say. This is all just too fucking messy. Too many complicated emotions. The struggle of right and wrong, of what should and shouldn’t be. Of possibilities and their consequences. 

Theo sighs. “Listen, Stiles, I…”

“Don’t, please.” The words get harder to say, the little plea to keep hidden what Theo wants to say for quite some time. Stiles wants to hear them, wants to hear whatever this confession might be, but he’s way too scared to face the music once he does. “Goodnight, Theodore,” Stiles whispers, rolling onto his side, back turned to Theo, staring at the wall. Sleep won’t come soon, he already knows, but he’d rather stay here in silence than keep talking about whatever it is Theo wants to talk about. 

“Goodnight, Mieczyslaw.” 

Lydia places her book on the desk and crosses her arms over it with pursed lips and narrowed eyes. “I don’t like it.” 

“Well, I’m not a fan of it either, but I gotta do what I gotta do.” Stiles can come up with a whole list with things that are better, safer, and a whole lot smarter than walking back into Eichen’s supernatural prison ward to talk to Peter. To be completely honest, Peter isn’t even the biggest problem in the whole endeavor. It’s the place, and Valack, and the rest of the shady shits working at Eichen House. The memories of his first stay are still hazy, partially because of the nogitsune trying to get control back, the sedatives, and his head refusing to go back there. The second time is clearer, mostly because he focused so much on keeping Lydia sane and safe. 

Pressing her lips into a thin line, Lydia shakes her head. “I don’t understand why you won’t let me come with you,” she says, reaching for his hand, although Stiles doesn’t plan to leave. Class hasn’t started yet, and he’s sworn himself that the only topic he will keep avoiding is the complicated feelings he has in regards to Theo. “What are you planning to do?”

That’s a good question. What is he planning to do? “Whatever I have to do to make sure Peter knows I don’t owe him anything,” Stiles replies, turning his hand a little to grab her hand tightly.

“I know you. You’re not a bad person, even if you have to do something others might not agree with, or that might be morally questionable.” She sounds as if she means it, but there’s still doubt nagging at the back of Stiles’ mind, this fear of losing her, losing one of the most important people in his life. "Please, just let me come with you, Stiles. I don't want you to go alone."

"He's not going alone," Theo announces, dropping his backpack on the desk in front of Lydia. His tone isn't particularly friendly, but much more offended than outright angry. He doesn't even pay their hands any mind, not while Lydia is holding his, and especially not when she lets go of it to jab her finger in the general direction of his face.

"I don't trust you with him."

Theo merely raises an unimpressed brow. "I spent the last week babysitting him. Trust me, I'm not going to let him rot in Eichen."

Pursing her lips, Lydia stares at Theo in silence. 

Stiles doesn't really know what to say to break the uncomfortable atmosphere, but Theo simply turns away from her and looks at him. "Who is this Peter Hale guy anyway?"

"He's you," Stiles replies without missing a beat, "but four times as bad. At _least_.

Theo smirks, and despite everything, it causes Stiles’ stomach to do a very weird thing, something he doesn’t appreciate. Things are changing too fast for his liking. Everything is moving in a direction he has never intended to go in, but all his struggles seem for naught. With Theo around, this close, in his fucking head, his shields are slowly crumbling around him. He’s so close to giving in, so close to allow Theo another step closer, and there’s no way of telling if that’s already too close. 

“I take that as a compliment,” Theo notes, hopping onto the desk next to his backpack. “Why is he in Eichen?” 

Squinting a little, Stiles glances at Lydia. “He’s been around for a while.” Starting with potentially killing his Laura while still in a coma and completely out of his mind. Come to think of it, half the shit he’s pulled happened because of the anger he felt while in a coma. Not that that excuses anything. “And he’s usually bad news, but then half a year ago, he tried to kill Scott and promptly ended up in Eichen House.” 

“You said he’s been around for a while,” Theo says, studying Stiles’ face almost curiously, “and he only wanted to kill Scott six months ago?” 

Lydia props her chin on her hand. “He wanted him as a beta in the beginning.”

Although he clearly wants to make a comment, Theo doesn’t say anything. Licking his lips, he contemplates Stiles for a moment, then Lydia, who taps a nail against the desk, before he turns back to Stiles, shifting the topic yet again into safer waters. “What’s the plan for tonight? Are you going to use his sons against him?” 

Stiles shakes his head. “Without knowing who they really are, they won’t be of much use to me.” The problem is, if it’s true that Brett’s mom stole the memory from Talia and then died with it, there’s nobody left on this fucking planet who knows about the identity of his two kids. Although it’s hard to imagine that a memory is simply _gone_. Is that even possible? Can you just steal someone else’s memory? That sounds insane. “I don’t even know if he believes me.”

“Why shouldn’t he?” Kira asks, rounding the table to sit down next to Lydia. 

Furrowing his brows, Stiles glances at her usual spot next to where Scott is sitting as well. It feels like a statement, and it probably is one. This feels heavy, but Lydia doesn’t look surprised, and Stiles isn’t sure if he’s in any position to ask, so he decides not to. Running his fingers along the side of his neck, Stiles clears his throat instead. 

But Theo is faster. "Werewolves don't trust those who can keep their heartbeat steady."

"Okay," Lydia says with a shrug, "then I tell Peter about his sons."

"Peter has sons?" Scott asks, and he sounds like he used to do, carefree and innocently surprised, a tinge of naivety to his tone that usually would Stiles roll his eyes in a fond kind of way. Now, he just feels numb to it, annoyed almost. He's more pissed that Scott bumps into a conversation that doesn't have anything to do with him, that he doesn't need to take part in.

He feels like a stranger. 

Stiles lets out a breath. “Yeah.” 

Another pause. More uncomfortable this time. Unless you’re Theo because he clearly enjoys it, judging by the smirk on his lips. Unprompted, he slips off the desk and positions himself next to Stiles, close enough that they are close enough one could think they touch. Stiles can feel his skin prickle with Theo’s warmth, with his proximity. He briefly glances at Theo, who is studying his face, lips pressed together as if he tries to hide a grin. 

“So, Malia has brothers.”

“Nope,” Theo says, enjoying this more than he probably should, “she was just a cover-up. Malia isn’t a Hale.” 

Oh, this fucking _idiot_. This isn’t a secret anybody should be spilling right now, especially not to someone who’ll end up telling Malia about it. This information cannot be spread if Stiles wants to use it against Peter, and he plans to use it against him in case of an emergency. He was willing to work with them once he learned that he had a daughter, perhaps he can bait him with this information as well. But it’s not going to work if everybody knows about it. 

Stiles narrows his eyes and elbows Theo in the ribs, ignoring the pang of pain. 

To absolutely nobody’s surprise, Theo feigned innocence. “Was I not supposed to tell?” 

Lydia rolls her eyes. 

“Stiles,” Scott says quietly, “if that’s true, you have to tell Malia.” 

Sure, maybe he should tell her. Especially right now when she’s struggling with her control. Let’s pile more shit on top of it, so she loses it completely. “She doesn’t talk to me.” Or he doesn’t talk to her. Or perhaps, they both decided that it’s best if they don’t talk to each other after their breakup. It doesn’t really matter in the long run. They don’t speak, and he doubts it’s a good idea to tell her right now. She deserves to know eventually, when things have calmed down, and it’s safe for her, and for those around her.

“Can you blame her?”

Stiles goes rigid. He can feel his heartbeat speed up, can feel anger boil in the pit of his stomach. _Can you blame her_ ? Of course, she’s the innocent one in this endeavor. Stiles messed up because that’s what he does. He’s never noticed it quite like this before, these little jabs, these little shifts of blame. Now that he noticed, however, Stiles can’t _stop_. But he’s not dealing with this. He can’t, not when he has to keep a clear head for later today. After all, he’s dealing with Peter Hale. That means he has to be on top of his game. 

“See you later,” Stiles says, nodding at Lydia and Kira before turning to Theo, patting his shoulder in passing. “Try not to kill anyone.” 

“I make no promises.” 

The gym’s heavy door falls shut audibly, and Stiles winces quietly at the sound. So much for not barging in. After having to deal with Gabe and his idiot friends only twenty minutes ago, he didn’t want to draw any further attention to him for now. Although he’s not too into school gossip, Stiles would pay for someone doing something scandalous or for people to just get bored with the stupid pictures. Maybe the weekend will help. There will be parties. On Monday, they’re going to have a new favorite topic. 

To his surprise, and somewhat relief, the gym is empty except for Theo, who drops to the ground after doing an undoubtedly ridiculously high number of pull-ups. “Track, lacrosse, and weight-lifting?” Theo asks, pushing his hands in the pockets of his grey sweatpants, “that’s a bit much, isn’t it?” 

Stiles chuckles and steps away from the door, following Theo to the bench by the dumb- and barbells. “I’m not exactly into weightlifting,” he tells him, straddling the bench. 

“It’s not like you need to.” 

“Yeah, I guess not,” Stiles says, watching as Theo picks up one heavy-looking barbell. “Although I’m not sure how much stronger I am now, I doubt I can flip around my jeep.” Balance and stuff. Kitsunes are weaker than werewolves, and to still keep it somewhat fair, they’re amazing with weapons and have some extra speed. Considering that Stiles is capable of using magic as well, his supernatural strength might not be as pronounced as it could be.

Theo chuckles. “You don’t get many compliments, do you?” 

“Huh?” Stiles squints at Theo, his reflection in the mirror then the real deal again.

With a sigh, Theo sets the barbell down and straddles the bench as well, leaving just enough space between them, that their knees are not quite touching, but might as well. “You don’t need to work out because you’re looking good already.” 

Stiles blinks, not entirely sure he heard that right. But he did, didn’t he? “Oh, uh-” he can feel the heat creep up his neck. Clearing his throat, he rubs the nape of his neck. 

Theo snorts out a laugh. 

“Thanks,” Stiles mutters, staring at the bench. It for sure has seen better days, and it isn’t particularly interesting either, but he kind of doesn’t know how to look at Theo right now. He is terrible with compliments, he really is. 

Crossing a leg over the bench, Theo chuckles again. “You’re welcome.” He pauses, eyes palpable on Stiles’ skin. “So, what brings you to the gym? For some reason, I don’t think it’s my charm.” 

Stiles tugs on the hem of his shirt and licks his lips. “I- uhm.” Tapping a nail against the wooden bench, he looks up and at Theo’s expectantly raised eyebrow. “I came to tell you that I made my decision.” 

“Okay..?” Theo draws his brows together. 

"I'll help you train your pack if you still want to." Stiles is aware that it's a questionable decision for more than one reason. After all, they still might turn on them once the Dread Doctors are dealt with, but with another stable and well-established pack, their chances are much higher to even reach that goal. If Theo decides to go dark side afterward, Stiles can deal with him then. One problem at a time. The more pressing issue is that it puts him in a position of constant contact. The attraction is becoming harder to deny, Stiles doubts hanging out with Theo will change that, or maybe it'll help him, maybe things will get easier. 

Theo nods, his expression bright with something Stiles can’t quite put his finger on. "Tell me when and where, we'll be there." 

“Tomorrow, your house,” he says, pressings his hands together, “nine a.m. sharp.”

“You got it, boss.”

“You can lose Tracy, by the way.” 

Theo laughs again, grabbing Stiles’ wrist as he gets to his feet, or tries to, at least. His grip is tight but not painful, insisting but not forcing. His thumb brushes over the back of his wrist. The touch makes him shudder and close his eyes. Despite himself, he allows Theo to pull him back down, closer this time, allows him to cup his cheek, to run his fingers along his jawline. He doesn’t even say anything when Theo hides his face in the crook of his neck and wraps an arm around him, breathing in, holding on tight. 

But he doesn’t move either. 

As much as Stiles craves this, as much as he needs this, he cannot return the gesture. His body is on board with the whole thing, his mind is screaming. He’s petrified of being used, of being manipulated. He can’t. 

Not again.

"Theo." A statement. A question. A plea. Stiles isn't a hundred percent sure what he wants, what he asks for, what he means. No, he knows what he wants, and frankly, it scares him because he doesn't know what that says about him. 

For the flicker of a second, Theo's fingers press harder against the small of his back. His heart jumps into his throat, but Theo pulls his arm away and straightens, the smile on his face looks almost real. “I’ll see you after school.” 

Stiles nods and gets to his feet. “Yeah, see you.” 

“Who do we start with?” Danny asks, slamming his locker door shut. 

Liam shrugs. “Don’t know. What do we know about the chimeras? Stiles?” 

Stiles blinks. “Huh?” 

“Where’s your head at?” Liam asks, drawing his eyebrows together, and shoulders his backpack. 

Jackson zips his jacket up, quirking a brow. “Lacrosse, hopefully.”

Yeah, that would actually be a nice thought for once, but Stiles’ mind is stuck on Theo, the fucking embrace and the feeling of his face hidden in the crook of his neck. His fingertips are still itching to touch him, and he hates himself that he didn’t throw caution to the wind. Maybe he has to dive in headfirst to find a way out. 

Unless there isn’t a way out. What if he drowns? 

“It’s still a charity game,” Danny says, arms crossed in front of his chest. The look on his face speaks volumes. 

Jackson scoffs. "Against _Devenford_. If you think I will lose against this smug motherf-"

"His mother was murdered by hunters when he was a kid," Stiles cuts in. This fucking dick-measuring contest between everyone and Brett is getting on his nerves. They don't have to become best buddies, all he asks is that they behave like adults once in a while. 

Liam scowls. "But he has a point, if we lose against Brett, we'll never hear the end of it."

“This lacrosse team is at the bottom of the barrel, winning this charity game will catapult us to the top,” Jackson insists, dropping onto the bench next to Stiles as if he’s about to hold a monologue about the importance of lacrosse in times of a nearing catastrophe. A moment ago, Danny and Liam talked about who the next victim of the Dread Doctors might be, and now they’re talking about lacrosse again. He doesn’t have a clue how Jackson manages to keep his head wrapped up in lacrosse while knowing very well what’s going on in Beacon Hills. 

Stiles massages his temple. “You need to sort out your priorities, man,” he says, shaking his head a little. “Lacrosse isn’t everything.” This obsession throws him back to the early days. He hasn’t heard anybody speak this much about lacrosse since Jackson left, and then briefly when Liam came to school. But ever since Coach was poisoned, lacrosse hasn’t really been mentioned at all. It seems so insignificant after everything they went through. Sure, the charity game is important, but compared to the mayhem the Dread Doctors’ beast can cause, it means nothing. 

With a sigh, he gets to his feet and grabs his backpack. Enough dwindling. They have an appointment at Eichen. Stiles really hopes he doesn’t overestimate his own abilities because Peter’s schemes shouldn’t be underestimated. Plus, Theo clogging up part of his mind really doesn’t help the overall situation. Slinging the gym bag over his shoulder, Stiles follows Danny out of the locker room. 

Liam and Jackson are not far behind, and the latter isn’t done with the topic. “It’s called stress relief, pal,” Jackson tells him, sounding disconcertingly serious about every single word he says. He also sounds like Brett and Isaac the night of the party, but Stiles is pretty sure he would break Jackson if he ever told him about that. "At this rate, the stress will kill you faster than any supernatural creature would. I understand that you are concerned, but you have to have fun once in a while. You know? Get laid."

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that,” Danny mutters, rolling his eyes.

Stiles stares at Jackson, not entirely sure if he should be offended or touched. All in all, he’s not _wrong_. He’s also not the first person to tell him that. "Are you offering?" Stiles asks, clearly aiming for a joke and hoping that he’ll just end this strange conversation.

Jackson, however, places a hand on his shoulder. "I would," he says, the sincere admission almost knocking Stiles off his feet, "but I'm sure it would make things weird with Lydia." Smirking, Jackson pats his back. "I'm also not as suicidal as Talbot."

"What?" Stiles stops walking, staring at Jackson. He’s not entirely sure how Brett fits into this conversation, or how he’s suicidal. Unless Theo is so obvious that even Jackson has already picked up on it, which is not what he wants. 

Coming to a halt, Liam turns and scrutinizes his face. "You didn't really sleep with Brett, right?"

" _What_ ?" Since when is his love-life on blast? What is going _on_? He just cracked a joke, this topic can be over. Nothing else to dissect here. "Can- can we talk about more important things? Because who I do and don't sleep with is none of your concern." Narrowing his eyes, he points a finger at Liam, who shrinks a little, already opening his mouth to say something. Stiles waves his hand around. "Danny, can you send me the lists? Jordan and I can go through it, maybe cross-check everything with missing reports and runaways or anything else that would make the teenagers high-risk targets."

Danny nods. "Yeah, will do."

"Cool, thanks… but, actually," Stiles says, picking up the pace again, "there's something else I want to ask you." He really doesn't want to spread this, but he trusts Danny with the job, and Stiles has absolutely no fucking clue how else he would get information as fast as with his help. 

Danny sighs. "This friend group needs another hacker."

"You can teach me after this mess is over."

"I take you at your word," Danny says, shaking his head a little. "Now, what is-"

"Oh, you gotta be kidding me." Liam and Jackson simultaneously come to a halt in front of the double door leading out of the school. Whatever they've spotted in the parking lot can't be good if the tone of Liam's voice is anything to go by. 

Jackson stares at him as if someone stoles his title of lacrosse captain again. "Did you invite him here?"

“Did I invite who-” Stiles begins, but he finds the problem only a moment later. “Oh, come on.” Brett waiting outside Beacon Hills High School is the last thing he needs right now, especially during a time the members of his lacrosse team will be very likely to run into him. Seeing that he’s still wearing his school uniform, it’s likely that he’s coming here directly from school, but he still could’ve texted him to meet him somewhere. Then again, Brett wouldn’t be quite himself if he didn’t take up a chance to make a scene, or perhaps he doesn’t even think about it because he doesn’t care. 

Pushing past Liam and Jackson, Stiles crosses the parking lot. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots Gabe watching the scene unfold. Stiles can’t wait for this stupid lacrosse feud to be over. As soon as the charity game is over, everything will thankfully die down a bit, yet Devenford and the Cyclones will remain enemies forever. Liam’s history with Brett definitely fueled the fire, and if Jackson ever mentions anything about why he hates Beacon County’s Golden Boy, it’s only going to get worse. Every school needs another school they can turn into an archnemesis. Brett’s arrogance just offers the perfect basis. 

Isaac opens the passenger door open. “Hey.”

“You know your presence isn’t exactly welcome here?” Stiles gestures in the general direction of the school. 

Brett shrugs, leaning against the side of his car. “I don’t really give a fuck.” 

“The usual.” Stiles runs his fingers through his hair. “What do you want?” 

“Sex, fun, to live in a city with a lower death rate, a-” Isaac punches his hip, Brett glares at him over the rim of his sunglasses. Stiles has no fucking idea how he and Jackson don’t get along. They’re both obsessed with lacrosse. They both think sex will solve any problem. Instead, he’s best friends with Isaac. Well, opposites attract and all that, and Brett seems like the person who is in desperate need of someone acting as his conscience. Probably a good thing, seeing that the guy never stops pretending to be above everyone else. Sighing, Brett pushes his sunglasses to the top of his head. “We’re here because of your stupid idea to go to Eichen.” For what it’s worth, he actually sounds as if he’s somewhat worried. 

Stiles furrows his brows. “What about it?” 

Tapping the side of his seat, Isaac studies him. “We think you shouldn’t go there without any means of protection.” 

“I have-”

“Using your magic in there is suicide,” Brett interrupts his, crossing his arms, “and as magical as it all sounds, we don’t know for sure if this weapon will come to you in case of an emergency inside a building that’s specifically constructed to keep anything even remotely supernatural locked up or away.” His tone is sharp and less annoyed than usual. It feels like a big deal. Mostly because it’s coming from Brett. 

Stiles wraps his fingers around the strap of his backpack. “I’m going with Lydia and Theo.”

“So, you’re going with a banshee still adapting to her powers and a chimera who’s not to be trusted.” Brett has a point, he knows he has a point, and he lets Stiles know that he knows that. This smug smile really doesn’t give him any sympathy points. “The people working there aren’t just nurses and psychologists, they’re trained hunters. They usually stick to the rules, but… it’s better to be safe than sorry.” Brett frowns and straightens, overlooking the parking lot. 

Isaac reaches for something between his legs and conjures up a small bag. Twice, he taps his fingers against whatever is inside then offers the bag to Stiles. “I want you to have these,” he says, leaning his head against the headrest to look at him. “They’re of more use to you than me.” Whatever is in the bag is heavier than expected, and when it switches hands, Stiles picks up on the sound of metal against metal. “They’re Allison’s Chinese daggers.” 

“Allison’s…” Stiles trails off and pulls one of them out. Holding them brings back a wave of memories and feelings, he really doesn’t need an hour before meeting Peter Hale. He drops the dagger back into the bag and tightens his grip on the rough fabric, struggling with the urge to drop it or push it back in Isaac’s hands. He can’t- he cannot deal with this right now. 

“Stiles,” Isaac says, grabbing his wrist, “please, take them with you, for my sanity’s sake.” 

“You sound like Jordan,” Stiles says, trying something, anything really, to make this strange feeling go away. 

A tired smile curls around Isaac’s lips. “Someone has to be the voice of reason,” he notes, squeezing Stiles’ wrist one more time before letting go and shakes his head. “Neither you nor would know what that even means if it slapped you in the face.”

Brett angles his face down and stares at Isaac. “I’m sorry?” 

“Yeah, you’re right.” Isaac nods, sinking back into the passenger’s seat with a sigh. “Stiles knows what reason is, he just chooses to ignore it.” 

“Oh, _haha_.” 

“Just…” Isaac closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, “just promise me to be careful, all right?” 

“I promise.” 


	30. Eichen House

Stiles hates this place. Just looking at it fills him with the desire to tuck tail and run the other direction. The gate alone gives off a foreboding sense of doom and despair. Stiles has felt that enough in the past two weeks, he doesn't need seconds. Swallowing around the lump in his throat, he raises his hand, intending to press the buzzer, then raises it higher and runs his fingers through his hair.  _ Fuck _ . Why is this so hard  _ again _ ? He's been in there with Lydia. Is it Peter he's afraid of? No.  _ No.  _ Why should it be Peter? He knows Peter. He hung out with Peter. Even at his worst, Peter merely offered him the bite and accepted his snark. 

It's the building. The memories he can't forget and those he can't remember. It's Brett's warning. The daggers hidden underneath his clothes.

“We don’t have to do this,” Lydia says, slipping her fingers through his to squeeze his hand. 

Stiles holds onto her. If he can’t even do this, if he can’t even confront Peter and face whatever scares him in Eichen House, how the fuck is he supposed to deal with the Dread Doctors and their monster? He needs to do this. He needs to do this for himself, for his sanity, and to prevent the shitstorm brewing behind Peter Hale. They can avoid this. They can stop this before it gets out of hand. 

No more reacting when it’s too late. That’s why he’s doing this. That’s why he  _ needs _ to do this. 

Right? 

He shakes his head. This isn’t the time for doubts. Stiles glances at Theo, tries to gauge what he’s thinking about this plan. Instead, he notices how Theo contemplates Lydia’s hand in Stiles. He tilts his head a little, almost wolfish in nature, before looking up and catching Stiles’ eye. To his surprise, Theo smiles, however briefly, and turns away again, pushing his hands in the pockets of his jeans without causing a scene.  _ Huh _ . Is he really that unbothered by Lydia? And would it change if he knew how hard Stiles crushed on her only a year ago? He watches Theo for a little while longer, watches how he’s now highly focused on something in the opposite direction. 

But there’s still a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Stiles bites the inside of his cheek and returns his attention to Lydia, to the topic at hand. He doesn’t have time for a distraction. Not right now. “I need to do this, Lydia. I can prevent whatever Peter has planned before it blows up in my face.” Stiles swallows, turning away from Theo, and squeezes Lydia’s hand tightly. “We can’t- I can’t keep running from things. I have a responsibility now whether I want it or not. If people die because I ignored my instincts, their blood is on my hands. I was possessed by a fox. I’m part of the reason for the Dread Doctors’ return. If talking to Peter in this hellscape for five minutes will protect innocent people from dying in the future, I am going to do just that.” 

Drawing her eyebrows together, Lydia studies him for a moment. “Okay,” she whispers eventually, “okay.” 

Theo hits the button, not taking the risk of Stiles changing his mind, and crosses his arms. It doesn’t take ten seconds until a faint buzzing noise is audible. The front gates open, creaking like every front gate in every horror movie. Stiles hates exactly everything about this, but he’s squeezing Lydia’s hand again, ignoring the itch to grab Theo’s as well, and starts walking up the stairs. It’s the right decision, but that doesn’t mean it’s not a bad one. 

Stiles briefly glances over his shoulder. There are still a few seconds left. Part of him wants to hurry back to Theo’s truck, flip responsibility the bird, and drive home. But he’s not going to do that. He has to care for the balance now, and that means he has to put his own needs aside. 

Pushing the door open, Theo enters Eichen first, but it’s Stiles who knocks his fist against the glass and demands the man’s attention. “We’re here for Peter Hale,” he tells him, voice steadier than he thought it would be. This place is a nightmare.

“Mister Stilinski, we’ve been expecting you.” 

Stiles whips his head around, fingertips pressing against the back of Lydia’s hand. Although he knew Valack runs this place now, seeing him in the flesh and without his third eye is slightly disconcerting. He doesn’t trust Valack. Just looking at him causes his mind and body to go into fight and flight mode. He doesn’t know what it is exactly. Maybe it’s because he’s unpleasant as fuck, or it’s because Brett’s words keep nagging at the back of his mind. The guy surrounds himself with a constant ‘no fucks given’ attitude. His worry leaves a bad taste in Stiles’ mouth. Brett isn’t like that. At least, he never appeared to be like that. But now his warning confirms Stiles’ suspicion. This place is bad news. Hearing Brett agree with him is not a good sign. Not at all. 

“My father called you then,” Stiles says in lieu of a greeting. 

Valack nods his head, an unnerving smile glued to his lips. “He did indeed. I am, however, surprised. How exactly will one of my patients be helpful to a case?” 

Lydia scoffs but doesn’t say anything. 

“You know I can’t tell you that,” Stiles replies.

“Of course.” Valack chuckles quietly. His eyes remain cold and calculating. Maybe it’s Stiles’ anxiety speaking, but he can’t stop thinking that Valack knows something is different from the last time they’ve met - and he’s not talking about the fact that he’s running Eichen House now. “If you please follow me.” Valack gestures towards the hallway, but he doesn’t move; instead, he studies Stiles for a moment longer. He knew about the Dread Doctors, even wrote this stupid book. He knew Lydia is a banshee. Believing he cannot see the supernatural when it’s standing right in front of him would be reckless.

Stiles is suddenly hyper-aware of the daggers he carries at his waist and around his ankle. He itches to grab them just to feel safer, but he squeezes Lydia’s hand instead, and she squeezes back just as tightly. 

Finally, Valack turns around and walks down the hallway. “I had not expected to see you again this soon.” 

Theo bumps into Stiles when they start walking. It’s hard to tell if he did it on purpose. Touching him just to remind Stiles that he’s still here seems exactly like something Theo would do. It’s something Stiles would draw away from under different circumstances, but now he can’t ignore how calming Theo’s presence is to him. It gives him more courage than it probably should. For the flicker of a second, Stiles allows his hand to brush against Theo’s, barely resisting the urge to hold onto it for dear life.

“It’s not exactly a pleasure,” Stiles says after a silence that feels too long. 

Valack doesn’t seem to mind. “I must apologize for the abysmal treatment you’ve suffered during your stay with us.” With a quiet click, he opens the door to the stairwell, waving them through. “Let me assure you that I have made improvements to our protocols for our patients.” 

Lydia lets go of his hand when she slips through the open door. Stiles follows her, hating to have Valack at his back now, but Theo is there, right behind him. His hand rests on his waist for a split second, thumb brushing over the handle of the dagger. The unease fades a little, yet doesn’t leave him completely. 

“All of your patients?” Stiles asks, glancing over his shoulder when the door snaps shut behind them. 

Valack is still following them. “Our human patients.” 

“And the non-human ones?” Lydia inquires without looking around. As it is, she’s the only supernatural creature Valack knows about. He might assume that not all is as it seems with Theo and Stiles, but without making a move, he won’t have any proof, and as greedy as Valack might be, he isn’t stupid. He wouldn’t risk trouble with the sheriff and his entire department because of a hunch. But that still doesn’t mean they’re entirely safe. Not in this place. 

Never in this place. 

“They are treated how they need to be treated,” Valack replies just as they arrive on the bottom floor. 

Theo pushes Stiles aside to make room, keeping his arm against his chest. “And how do they need to be treated?”

For a moment, Valack studies Theo almost curiously. Something impossible to decipher crosses over his face, and for the first time since they’re here the polite mask cracks. “We’ve arrived. You will find him in the last cell on the left,” he says, noticeably cooler than before, and swipes his card in front of the reader. The lock clicks, and the door swings open. “A member of my team will escort you out in an hour. If you need to leave earlier, feel free to call.” Studying them all one last time, Valack turns around and walks back up the stairs. 

Lydia and Stiles exchange a glance as Theo pushes past them. “I hate that guy,” he announces, not even trying to be silent. 

“Welcome to the club,” Stiles says, following him, and watches the door fall shut with a sinking feeling. They’re going to get out of here. They are going to  _ get out of here _ . He can’t worry about that too much anyway. Now, he has to focus on what’s at the end of the hallway. As confident as he might be, Stiles cannot underestimate Peter. When it comes to him, it is much safer to be prepared for everything. 

After only a few steps, Lydia grabs his hand again. Stiles knows why. He can hear the whispers of the inmates. He can feel their gazes on him, crawling like bugs on his skin. Despite himself, he shudders and quickens his step, pulling Lydia with him. Stiles makes a point of keeping his eyes locked on Theo’s back, studying the way his shoulder blades move slightly, or how the black t-shirt clings to his body and biceps. He also notices the tense line of Theo’s shoulders, notices how he curls his hands into fists when he slows to a stop in front of the last cell on the left. 

Stiles lets go of Lydia before they come into view of Peter’s cell and crosses his arms behind his back. It’s strange to see him again after so long, yet he’s not particularly surprised to find him lying on his cot as if he’s enjoying the sun at the beach. His game began the moment he paid their bills. Round two started when Stiles figured out the truth. This is the third round, and hopefully, it will be the last. 

Angry and nervous, Stiles slams the side of his fist against the glass.

“So impatient,” Peter sighs, getting to his feet elegantly and in one swift movement. “Hello, Stiles.” The way his name rolls off Peter's tongue doesn’t sit right with him, but Stiles raises his chin a little and looks at him. “And Lydia,” he says, smiling at her. “What a lovely surprise.” Just that he doesn’t look surprised. He probably isn’t. Peter isn’t stupid. He most definitely didn’t expect Stiles to come alone.

Lydia smiles, but it’s sharp and unpleasant. “We certainly disagree on our definition of lovely.”

Peter’s attempt to look hurt fails miserably, but then again, he probably isn’t really trying. Pressing a hand to his chest regardless, he sighs dramatically. “I thought we went through enough to move past our minor misunderstanding.” 

“Minor misunderstanding?” Lydia echoes in faux disbelief. Neither she nor Stiles is particularly surprised about any of his antics. It’s not even that shocking that he didn’t change too much during his imprisonment. “I’m not sure, are you talking about that time you let me bleed out on the lacrosse field so Stiles would help you find Derek-” okay, she really makes it sound as if Stiles was the target of that evening, when that clearly wasn’t the case “-or that time you drove me insane, so I’d aid your in your resurrection, or the time you put my friend and me on a supernatural deadpool?” Smiling icily, she folds her hands in front of her and raises an eyebrow expectantly. 

Stiles bites his bottom lip to stop himself from laughing. 

“In my defense,” Peter says, holding both hands up, “I didn’t consent to the last one because I was, how’d you say,  _ comatose _ .” 

Lydia rolls her eyes but doesn’t reply. Stiles can relate to that. Although it is hard to put the blame on Peter for what Meredith did, they can’t completely erase him from it either. Especially since he tried to kill Scott later on. Attacking and biting Lydia was way too calculated to plead insanity, and Peter really doesn’t have any excuse for what he made her do on her sixteenth birthday as well as the time leading up to it. 

After waiting a few beats for a response that never comes, Peter lowers his arms again. When he turns towards Theo, and his smile turns into a frown, Stiles can’t help but be a little surprised. “What are you, exactly?” Right. Theo smells like a werewolf. Mostly, at least. But perhaps Peter notices the subtle differences to a normal werewolf like Brett did. 

That might explain his sudden change in mood. 

Stiles steps forward, putting himself front and center. “It’s who,” he says, recapturing Peter’s attention with ease, “and his name is Theo Raeken.” Although it is not at all important to the conversation they are going to have, denying Peter any and all information will not help him. Stiles will have to give a little to reach his desired goal. 

Peter draws his eyebrows together. “Raeken,” he echoes, almost sounding as if he’s trying the word out. 

“His parents are both lawyers,” Lydia says, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “You probably needed them at one point.” 

“This is my first time in prison,” Peter explains, his nonchalance returning with every word, "and I have to admit, I don't enjoy it. You can pass on giving Scott my regards." His blue eyes shift away from Lydia and zero in on Stiles. Peter's lips curve into a smile when he steps closer to the wall of glass separating them. "Where is he? I used to think you two are inseparable."

Stiles is not about to answer that. "What do you want?"

But when Peter catches a scent, he rarely stops pursuing it. "Oh, scandalous. What happened?"

Stiles curls his hands into fists, nails digging into his palm. "I know you paid our bills," he pushes, stepping closer again. "Now, tell me what the fuck you want." Despite his best efforts, he can't keep his voice steady. This place gets to him, as does Peter's attitude. Neither is helpful to his cause, but his own anger might be. The trick of playing werewolves will always be honesty. Give them what they expect, then twist it around. 

Peter tsks and crosses his arms over his chest. "Still so easily angered." He holds his gaze for a moment before his eyes flit back to Theo. "Fascinating, isn't it, Theodore?" The smile broadens for a heartbeat, showing a hint of white teeth. "I assume it is Theodore, no?"

"It's not," Theo replies curtly. 

"Peter, tell me-"

"There's something irresistible about him," he continues, unfazed by Stiles' anger and Theo's irritation. "A certain kind of pull even my nephew couldn't completely resist."

Stiles snaps his fingers. "I didn't come here for small talk. Tell me why you paid our bills." Although he's aware that this will most likely never give him a straight answer, Stiles will keep on the direct path for a little while longer. The second he turns to leave, Peter will tell him everything he needs to know. 

"I wanted to bite him, Theodore."

Theo growls low in his throat. It's hard to tell if it's Peter's insistence on the name Theodore or his confession of wanting to bite Stiles. With Theo, neither is less likely than the other. 

"The first time I caught his scent-" Peter closes his eyes, making a show of taking a deep breath, and Stiles can't stop the unpleasant feeling creeping up his spine "-I noticed something." Without warning, his eyes snap open again, glowing steel blue, narrowing slightly as he turns to face Theo and only Theo. "You know what I'm talking about."

"All right, that's it," Stiles mutters, grabbing Theo's wrist, "we're leaving." Because this is precisely what he didn’t want to happen. This is what isn’t supposed to happen. Peter and Theo are a dangerous combination, one that should never solidify. The way Peter studied Theo, with a frown and sharp blue eyes, the way ‘Raeken’ rolled off his tongue, the way he keeps addressing him over and over and over again. Stiles doesn’t like it, and he’s going to stop it right now. 

Theo follows dutifully, but Stiles doesn’t let go of his wrist, even tightens his grip because Theo is, and will always remain, unpredictable in some of his actions. Just because Peter can’t get through that glass, doesn’t mean it will stop a chimera from bursting through. And Stiles  _ feels  _ his anger. Not in the same way he felt Scott’s pain, but similar. It’s heavy in the air, it’s prickling on Theo’s skin. It's like the humming but more of a physical sensation. 

That makes Stiles nervous too because Peter is one stupid comment away from being jumped. But considering how easily Brett overpowered Theo, Stiles really doesn't want to paint a picture of what might happen if Theo and Peter but heads. Mostly because Peter is much less forgiving than Brett, and Theo just doesn't know when to stop.

"I know what you are," Peter sings, causing Stiles to freeze mid-step. Lydia's heels click one more time, and then without any warning, the whole hallway is wrapped up in complete and utter silence, almost as if everyone here knows something crucial happened. But it didn’t. Peter can’t know. He can’t possibly know that the nemeton made Stiles its successor. They’ve kept it under wraps. They haven’t told anyone. “Silver is such an interesting eye color, is it not?” 

The tension rushes out of Stiles’ body. He closes his eyes for a second and lets go of Theo. “Stay here,” he whispers. If he wants to get anywhere in this conversation, Stiles needs to be the only person in Peter’s direct line of vision. Although Lydia purses her lips, she nods when he glances at her. With his head held high, Stiles returns to Peter’s cell. “Are you going to talk to me now?”

“What is there to talk about?” Peter asks, turning his head a little to the right. “You know what I want.”

Unimpressed, Stiles quirks a brow. “A new outfit by an Italian designer? Those jeans have seen better days.” 

Peter regards him with a close-mouthed smile, dropping his attitude finally. “I’m not made for a cage.”

“So, your first thought is guilt-tripping me into letting you out?” Stiles asks, pushing his hands in the pockets of his pants. This is so not at all surprising. In fact, it’s exactly what Stiles expected. Peter doesn’t do anything out of the kindness of his heart. There’s always something else going on. Not quite unlike Theo. In that regard, they are eerily similar. “Maybe you should’ve paid Scott’s bills.” Although, seeing that Peter tried to kill him, it’s entirely possible that not even Scott would let him roam free again. Whether he helped them or not, Peter is a loose cannon. There isn’t much that would keep him under control. Unless, perhaps, knowing he has two sons. Lydia managed to make him dance to her tune by withholding Malia’s name. If Stiles figures out who his kids are, then he might be able to use that to his advantage. 

Peter tilts his head again, regarding him almost curiously. “There’s something different about you,” he remarks and steps closer to the glass.

“I thought we established that.” 

But Peter shakes his head. “How exactly did you acquire your unique eye color?” 

“I’m not going to let you out.” Maybe Stiles should consider getting contacts in his natural eye color. That would most probably help him avoid conversations like this, especially with people who aren’t supposed to know the truth. While the only person specifically mentioned was Deaton, Stiles has the feeling that Peter should definitely be sorted into that category as well.

A flash of anger crosses Peter’s features.  _ There we go _ . That's a Peter who is so much more willing to talk than the one hiding behind his untouchable attitude. 

Stiles raises his brows. “What? You wanna threaten me?” With a smile, he steps closer to the glass, ignoring the white line reminding him to keep a distance. It doesn’t matter anymore anyway, not since this place has been made supernatural proof. “Come on, Peter. You don’t know what I am, and you know you don’t have anything on me.” 

His lips remain in a tight curl for a little longer, then Peter chuckles, tries to cover up what he really feels with a smile. It doesn’t reach his eyes. It doesn’t make the cloud of anger go away. "I should've bitten you."

"Opportunities, huh?" Stiles leans closer to the glass. "Shame when they pass unused, right?” With a chuckle, he leans back again. “Come to think of it, how many chances of killing Scott did you miss until you decided on that convoluted plan?” And why did he wait for so long to go through with it? They worked together against the alpha pack, worked with each other to get rid of the nogitsune. And then, all of a sudden, he decides that he needs to work with Kate to kill Scott. It doesn’t make any sense. Not at all. 

Peter’s smile appears strangely frozen. He draws his eyebrows together, studying Stiles’ face for a while longer. “It seemed necessary.” 

“It-” Stiles blinks, startled.  _ What _ ? Of all the answers he expected, 'it seemed necessary' is not at all on the long list of potential responses. He really thought Peter would give him some dramatic speech about how he is the one true alpha of Beacon Hills, how this is Hale land, how it should be him. "It seemed necessary," he repeats, drawing his eyebrows together. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"Exactly what I said."

Stiles glances over his shoulder, but Lydia only shrugs, and Theo doesn't react at all. He's merely staring at Stiles, his eyes slightly narrowed, his shoulder a tense line. He looks as if he's ready to attack the moment he hears the go-ahead. "No more games, Peter," he says, turning back towards him, "give me a straight answer."

Again, Peter's frown deepens, but he quickly covers it up with another smile. "Scott doesn't deserve to be an alpha." 

While Stiles is inclined to agree after everything that happened, there is still a flaw in his logic. "You can't steal a true alpha's spark." 

Peter chuckles. "That sounds like one of Deaton's old wives' tales." 

Again with Deaton being a liar. Another person hinting that his word shouldn't be trusted. Stiles narrows his eyes. "Theo killed him, Scott remained alpha." The words slip past his lips before he can stop them, and he doesn't have time to ponder if he made a mistake.

Blue eyes flash, and Peter's expression lightens noticeably. Theo must be some kind of miracle worker in his eyes. "Theodore?" Peter leans forward curiously, trying to look at him. "Impressive. May I speak with him again?"

Wait, wait, wait,  _ no _ . This is not how this is supposed to go. Peter can’t just drop vital information like that and then change the fucking topic. Stiles sets his jaw. "No, you are talking to me." Peter knows shit. He might know everything Satomi and Noshiko know. Maybe even  _ more _ . He might also be much more willing to talk than the two of them, and Stiles cannot keep hoping Brett tells him everything that Satomi keeps to herself. It's a miracle he went behind her back multiple times already.

Peter feigns a yawn. “I think I’m done talking.” 

“You are not!” Stiles can feel his temper slipping. He needs to be focused, calm, and the one in control of this conversation. Instead, he's falling for Peter's little tricks, reacting to his childish taunts. It's so stupid. He knows better than this, or so he thought. But maybe that was his mistake. By believing he knows what to expect from Peter, Stiles followed a path laid out for him. Suddenly he wonders if he has ever been the one leading this conversation.

With a smile creeping onto his lips, Peter looks at him. "Why bring such fascinating company if I’m not allowed to have a conversation with them?” 

"Because my father believes that I need a bodyguard for this visit," Stiles tells him, regretting that he ever told Peter about Theo killing Scott. It was a stupid idea. It was a clear case of his mouth working faster than his brain. "He doesn't think this place is safe for me, and Theo, well, he's the only one who can get in." Stiles shrugs, forcing himself to calm down again. If this is supposed to work, he will have to keep a tight grip on his temper because losing that is everything Peter wants, aside from getting out of this hellhole, that is.

Peter glances in Theo’s direction. His blue eyes linger on the chimera, and there's no way Theo doesn't notice it, but for what it is worth, he remains unmoving. "Hm." Peter runs a finger along his chin. "How is that possible?"

Raising a brow, Stiles looks Peter straight in the eye. "I think," he says slowly and takes a step away from the glass, "I'm done talking."

"Touché."

"I'm not here to play fucking games, okay? You wanna know where Scott is?" Stiles feels his temper rising again. "I killed someone in self-defense." His words hang in the air for a few seconds, thick and uncomfortable, but not as damaging to his own psyche as they used to be. 

Peter opens his mouth as if to say something, but he doesn’t. Not that he needs to. His blue eyes brighten with interest, and the smile slipping onto his lips is more than telling. Peter’s attention is fixed on him now, and that’s exactly what Stiles wants. 

"Scott believed I brutally murdered them after someone told him little lies." Stiles is not about to name names. Peter's interest doesn't need to be more on Theo than it already is. "I guess you could say we broke up. Then my dad was attacked and almost died because a piece of berserker bone was poisoning him. In general, I had one of the worst fucking months of my life. So pissing me off really isn't the best choice right now." And with all those fucking setbacks of the last month, Stiles is not about to let a chance pass no matter how small. Peter knows shit. Stiles wants to know everything he knows. "But I'm willing to make a deal."

"No,  _ Stiles _ ," Lydia’s voice is sharp.

Peter, however, raises his brows. "I'm listening."

“I’m done with secrets,” Stiles says, crossing his arms over his chest. “You and I are going to be honest with each other from now on." This is, by far, one of the stupidest things he ever suggested, and he had some questionable ideas during his life. Placing the truth on a silver platter for Peter to feast on could ruin his life, and he's just starting to put it back together again. "I should point out that I can lie to werewolves, and since I can’t hear your heartbeat either, the playing field is at the very least even.” This is a terrible idea, Lydia doesn’t need to tell him that, but if it helps him get closer to the goal of keeping people in Beacon Hills alive, Stiles is going to risk it, simple as that. He can save people. He can protect them not only from Peter acting up again, but by using whatever he knows to get rid of the Dread Doctors once and for all.

“You are truly full of surprises,” Peter tells him, stepping as close to the glass as possible. 

Stiles shrugs. “I don’t trust you, but you and I have one thing in common, we’re ready to do what’s necessary." They both are ready to get their hands dirty when it comes to survival. While it may not be the best thing to have in common with Peter, it is one of the easiest to accept. "You wanna get out, right?” 

The clicking of heels echoes in the hallway when Lydia returns to him. Her fingers dig into his upper arm, and she forcefully turns him around and away from Peter, a pleading expression on her features. She would've yelled at him on any other occasion. Maybe it's the place that makes her softer, perhaps she realizes that harsher words won't do the trick right now, maybe she doesn't want to risk a fight in front of Peter. “Don’t,” she breathes, and she’s right. Her fingers dig into his hoodie and upper arm. He knows she’s right. The second Peter is out, he might cause trouble. Actually, Stiles bets that he  _ will _ cause trouble. 

But this is a risk he’ll have to take. “Lydia-” He doesn't know what else to say, what else he can tell her because she already knows.

She presses her lips in a thin line.

“Stiles knows what he’s doing.” 

Despite himself, his heart lurches in his chest. Stiles wants to hear those words. He wants to hear them from his friends, needed to hear them from Scott on multiple occasions. Part of him knows that he is irrational, knows that he shouldn't blame Lydia for being the voice of reason. Someone has to be, even though Stiles has proven to ignore it over and over again. But he hates that Theo puts this unwavering trust in him because this is what he needs after the shitstorm of the past six months, no, after the absolute disaster the past two years have been. 

“I’m inclined to agree with Theodore.”

“Then I hope you’re going to agree with the rest as well,” Stiles says without looking away from Lydia. She doesn’t have to like what he’s doing -  _ he _ doesn’t like what he’s doing - but she has to at least understand where he’s coming from. Despite intending to go through with this no matter her opinion, Stiles can’t deny the weight lifting off his shoulders when her face softens, and she nods. She still trusts him. She always trusted him. It's just his own anxiety rattling his faith in everyone around him. “Because you have one shot at this, Peter,” Stiles continues, and when Lydia lets go of his arms, he turns to face Peter again. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots Theo standing next to him. “If I figure out you lied to me about one thing, you are going to rot in here, and I’m going to make sure the rest of your stay will be as uncomfortable as possible. Personally.” He uncrosses his arms, intending to push his hands in the pockets of his hoodie, but Lydia grabs his left hand.

“We will,” she says, squeezing it tightly. The warmth of her body, and the unwavering trust in him although she disagrees with what he's planning, it helps Stiles to breathe a little easier down here. 

For a second, Stiles glances at Theo, who looks at him. His lips curled into a determined line, he nods once. Again, Stiles can feel the itch in his fingers, feels the need to touch him. But he curls his hand into a fist instead and pushes it into the pocket of his hoodie.

Peter toes the bottom of the glass, unable to actually touch it, smiling an uncomfortably self-assured smile. “So, this is who you are without Scott’s leash around your neck.” He laughs briefly, amused by something Stiles doesn't quite understand. "I knew you'd be the one to get your hands dirty. You always have been. There's just  _ something  _ about you, something even the nogitsune found interesting." 

This is not the topic Stiles is willing to discuss with Peter now or ever. Not even for a moment. “Do you agree?” 

“Oh, of course,” Peter tells him, his voice almost a bit too delighted. “What do you want to know?” 

“Why couldn’t Theo steal Scott’s spark when he killed him?” Stiles knows a possible answer to this already, so it’s an easy test to figure out if Peter is willing to be honest, and if he lies, Stiles doesn’t have to waste any more time. After all, he only has an hour down here, and he doesn’t plan on playing games for the majority of it. 

Peter steps away from the glass, tapping a finger against his bicep. “A true alpha is still a werewolf with an alpha spark, and any spark can be absorbed, you should know that.” Yes, he knows that. Deucalion demonstrated how easy it is to absorb someone else’s spark. It doesn’t matter if they’re an alpha or an omega. If you know how, you can steal every supernatural creature’s strength. “If Scott truly kept his alpha spark, he must’ve gained his power from the nemeton. I presume Deaton helped him.”

“Why would he do that?” 

“To make up for all of his shortcomings while advising Talia. To ensure the nemeton’s power will remain his to use.” Peter shrugs, still smiling. “Maybe both. I was under the assumption he liked my sister more than an emissary should.”

Stiles quirks a brow. “Shouldn’t he have helped Derek then?” 

“My guess is that he looked at Derek and was reminded of the man Talia fell in love with,” Peter explains, flicking something off his arm before returning his attention back to Stiles. “My turn.” He steps closer to the glass again, raising a hand as if to touch it before thinking better of it. “Silver is the eye color of a nogitsune. Coincidentally, you were possessed by one, yet last time we met, your eyes were normal. Care to tell me what happened to that pretty amber of yours?” 

Theo growls quietly, but Peter probably heard it. This is exactly the sort of thing he will use against him later.

Although Stiles expected Peter to ask for the obvious immediately, he’s not particularly surprised. "The nemeton is dead," he says, raising a brow as Peter opens his mouth and widens his eyes in surprise.  _ Huh _ , what an unusual sight to see. "The nogitsune's magic poisoned it. Before it's death-"

"It made you its successor," Peter finishes, staring at him almost in awe. "Fascinating." Actually, more fascinating is that he knew that already. What else does he know? Or, more importantly, how much useful information can he give Stiles? A lot, he bets, and it will be much easier to come by than getting answers from Noshiko or Satomi. He can’t keep hoping Brett gives in and tells him what his alpha kept to herself. 

"What do you know about the Dread Doctors?" Stiles asks. They don't have time to dwell on being fascinated by little things. They have to get a move on because time is running out on them, and Stiles really does not want to stay here longer than he absolutely must.

Peter inclines his head, features morphing back into their usual slightly arrogant position. "Only the things Valack told me."

"Did he tell you how to kill them?" 

“He only mentioned their immortality.” 

“Fuck.” Stiles runs a hand through his hair, cursing under his breath. There has to be something they can do. There  _ has to be _ . 

Peter curls his lips into an unpleasant smile. “Everything with a pulse can be killed.” The problem isn’t always the killing itself. The problem is with the supernatural creatures staying dead. Peter is the best example of that. “Killing is my specialty.” Oh, he’s aware of that. 

“Well,” Lydia says, drawing her eyebrows together, “if we know what gives them immortality, we can take it away from them.” 

“That’s not going to help us.” Theo shakes his head and sighs. The rigid line of his shoulders gets even more tense when he turns to look at Stiles. “Remember the stuff I used on the others?” If he’s talking about the weird green goop, then yes, because that’s not particularly easy to forget. “They use it on themselves too.” He draws his eyebrows together and looks at Stiles, lips parting to say something he doesn’t. With a frown, he presses his lips together again then sighs. “I was with them for nine years. The only time they used it was a month ago. If we want to kill them right now, we need another plan.” And there goes that flicker of hope.

_ Shit _ . God, he wants to punch something. 

Theo perches up. “Someone’s coming.” 

“Our time’s up.” 

Peter steps forward. “Get me out.” 

“No,” Stiles says, glancing in the direction of the corridor before getting so close to the glass, his knee bumps against it. “Not today, at least. I stand by my word. If you told me the truth, I will get you out, and I will give you another incentive not to screw everything up.” 

“You’re spoiling me,” Peter drawls, but he’s listening.

The sound of the mechanical lock echoes through the hallway. “Your sister,” Stiles whispers, and Peter leans towards him as if that would help him hear better, “fucked you over. I tell you this because I know you care about your family. I saw you when Cora was dying.” He can’t believe he’s doing this, but he needs Peter on his side. He  _ has _ to get Peter on his side because if they really need to brute force their way out of this one, having another born wolf in his corner - especially one that does not hesitate to do whatever is necessary - might tip the scale to their advantage. “Malia isn’t your daughter. You have two sons.” 

“I have… what?” Stiles’ chest constricts when he sees Peter paling visibly. 

“You have two sons. Two boys.” He presses a hand against the glass, speaking faster when he notices footsteps coming closer. “I don’t know who they are, but I will find them for you-” his eyes widen when Peter’s head snaps up, and he’s looking at them as if he wants to say something but then decides against it “-if you promise me I will not regret this.” 

Peter swallows. The footsteps draw closer, and Stiles can feel his heart jump into his chest. It takes a second, another one, and a third before Peter finally nods. “I promise.” Stiles has never heard him sound so raw, and that’s enough for him. No matter what an immensely risky idea that was, he made the right decision. 

And he will stand by that.


	31. a vengeful heart

“What are we looking for again?” Jordan asks, one hand around his third coffee, the other propping up his head. They’re sitting in his dad’s hospital room for a good two hours already. They didn’t start their research immediately. Instead, his dad wanted to know absolutely everything that had happened in Eichen House. When Stiles tells him that he wants to set Peter free, it took his dad a long time to answer. Obviously, he was not happy with the idea. Neither was Jordan. However, in the end, they both accepted his decision - after Stiles told him about all the encounters he had with Peter, including the time he offered him the bite and accepted his decision not to take it. 

It's hard to tell what went through his father's head the moment he learned about it, but it seemed to be the critical detail that swayed his dad's decision. 

Stiles raises his phone and looks at Theo's text message again. "A human chimera. Everything's possible from microchimerism due to pregnancy, to a transplant, and Vanishing Twin Syndrome." Stiles frowns, biting down on the inside of his cheek for a second, hating the thought that anybody could be a victim, even a pregnant woman, because that means the list just got a lot longer. "Mostly, they choose high-risk victims." Probably to leave less of a trail to follow, even though Hayden doesn't quite fit the bill. She is the sister of a police deputy. Then again, Valerie was angry, but not noticeably surprised about Hayden vanishing for a few days. Maybe it didn't happen the first time. Maybe he misjudged her, and she used to run away from home. "They usually take teenagers or young adults because they have a better risk of survival. But they might take an adult if they think they're worth their time." With a sigh, Stiles drops his phone in his lap, wishing Theo could be here right now. Maybe he would notice things they are overlooking. But he doesn’t want to push Theo onto Jordan and his dad, and it’s probably better if they spend time apart, especially considering they’ll be together for the rest of the weekend. 

"What do we have on Amanda Wójcik?" Jordan asks, sipping on his coffee, eyebrows drawn together. 

The silence is filled by the mechanical clicking of a keyboard. Stiles runs his fingers through his hair, sorting his files into adults and teenagers on the floor in front of him, then leans against the armchair at his back, watching his father. 

"Nothing."

Jordan sighs and drops the folder on the floor. Nothing means they're not a high-risk victim. Nothing means they are less likely to be taken by the Dread Doctors, but it doesn't mean they're perfectly safe either. That is the problem of their current situation. 

Stiles picks up a folder from the teenager pile. "Thomas Robertson."

Again, clicking fills the silence. A moment later, his dad nods. "Grew up in foster care. He was charged with vandalism once."

Stiles started a new pile with his file. This is going to be a long night. Once they’re through with these files, they have the first batch of targets the Dread Doctors are most likely to choose. Still, there’s another category of targets - and that’s the category Corey, Tracy, and Hayden fall into. While Josh and Donovan have had trouble with the police before on multiple occasions, Corey, Tracy, and Hayden have a troubled home life, little to no friends, and are often left to their own devices. Those targets will be a lot harder to find. 

For almost two hours, they sort through the files and go through a list of pregnant women who have been in contact with the police, trying to figure out if they could potentially be high-risk targets as well. When they're through with that, his dad asks Melissa for a list of teenage girls or young women who are pregnant or have been pregnant. She's not thrilled about the request but helps them nonetheless. There will always be some rules that have to be broken when the supernatural is at play. 

Stiles stares at the list of names, trying to ignore the notes behind some of them. Thinking that a few women only recently went through something as harrowing as losing a child might already be the target of the Dread Doctors in the near future makes him nauseous. He hates it, hates that he cannot even predict who might be next. Even with that list of twelve people who are most likely to be taken, there are too many unknown variables. 

Theo said it himself. The Dread Doctors are running out of time, and they are clearly worried about the success of their experiment if they want Donovan to kidnap Stiles. That risk is still there, additionally to all the other shit going on - and it'll be even riskier if Stiles lives with his dad again. He will be a constant threat because Donovan could come and try to kidnap him every time. Maybe he should stay with Jordan, but he deserves to have his bed back. It would also leave his dad vulnerable. Stiles doesn't put it past Donovan to do something really stupid. 

And then what?

"Kiddo?" 

Stiles looks up. "Yeah?"

"You can't save all of them," his dad tells him, closing the laptop with a small frown. It's the first lesson you have to learn when working in the police force.  _ Don't _ let it get too close.  _ Don't _ make it personal. 

The thing is, it  _ feels _ personal. Stiles is the very reason the Dread Doctors came back to Beacon Hills. He gave power to the nemeton. They kickstarted it. Now, he is the nemeton. Even if his only job is to keep the balance, he can't just stand by and watch people die by the hands of those he lured back. 

He can't watch people die, period.

"I know," Stiles replies anyway, pulling his shoulders up in a half-hearted shrug. "I still have to do everything I can to keep them safe." 

Jordan leans forward, arms crossed over his legs. "Sometimes I wonder if people should know the truth," he tells them, tapping his thumb against the back of his hand. 

Stiles agrees. Partially. While everyone certainly would have a better chance of protecting themselves - securing your house with mountain ash goes a long way - it also could end up in a manhunt. People might think they are open to new things, that nothing could shock them anymore nowadays, but learning that all those horror stories are real? Not everyone would be cool with that. Not even in a town as strange as Beacon Hills. "Maybe not everyone," Stiles mutters, pressing the balls of his hands together, "but your deputies might be in desperate need of an update on what's going on." He glances at his father before returning his gaze to the list. Of all the trouble Beacon Hills endured since the Hales and Argent returned, the Dread Doctors, as well as the nogitsune, have never bothered to hide in the shadows. 

If the deputies know what's going on, perhaps they have a bigger chance of protecting potential victims.

“I’m not sure they are going to believe me,” his dad tells him, massaging the back of his neck. Who can blame them? He didn’t even believe Stiles in the beginning, and it makes sense. No matter how normal this sounds for all of them - well, mostly Stiles because he’s pretty sure his dad and Jordan are still overwhelmed with a lot of what’s going on - everyone not involved in this madness will think they are insane. 

Stiles licks his lips. “Maybe you shouldn’t be the one telling them.” 

Jordan raises his head and studies him silently. 

“Why?”

“I don’t know, it’s just- how did you feel when you figured out I lied to you for months?” Stiles shifts into a cross-legged position, propping his elbows on his legs. His dad doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t need to. Their relationship hasn’t been the best at that point, and although his dad hasn’t believed him in the beginning, he sure as hell was disappointed that Stiles kept something this life-threatening from him. His dad told him he understood the reasoning behind it, but he still didn’t like it. In hindsight, it was a stupid idea, and Stiles accepts that. He didn’t only throw himself into danger, but he also let his dad run into everything unprepared and made his job unnecessarily hard as well. 

Clearing his throat, Stiles continues. “I’m just saying, your deputies need to trust you. If they figure out you lied to them all this time, they might not take it too well.” Stiles knows he wouldn’t. Being a deputy is already dangerous under normal circumstances, but with the weekly supernatural disasters added to it, Beacon Hills is one of the most dangerous cities to be a deputy in. 

“I can do it,” Jordan offers, looking from Stiles to his dad. “We can pretend you didn’t know, Sheriff.” 

“No,” he shakes his head, “I don’t want to lie to my deputies.” 

“Dad-”

“No, absolutely not.”

Stiles knows that tone. Nothing he’ll say or do will sway his dad’s decision, but maybe he can lessen the blow. “I can ask Satomi for help,” he says, not a hundred percent sure if that is the best idea. Still if anyone knows how to break the news about the supernatural to people who don’t know anything about it, she’s the first one Stiles would ask. “We should talk to her anyway.” After all, they’re exposing her and her pack to strangers. She should agree to this.

His father nods. "That might be a good idea."

"As would be taking away everyone's guns for the duration of that confession," Jordan deadpans, running a hand through his hair. Probably a good idea. Not everyone takes news like that the way Valerie did.

Silence hangs in the air, but not the comfortable kind. It’s the type of heavy silence that precedes the beginning of an uncomfortable conversation. His dad clears his throat twice before he finally gathers the courage to ask, “how are things going with Scott?” 

Stiles presses the balls of his hands to his eyes. “I really don’t wanna talk about that right now.” 

“That bad, huh?”

Huffing out a breath, Stiles shoots him a look. “We should talk about you returning home instead, and what we’re going to do to ensure your safety.” Because as long as Donovan is alive, Stiles will have a target on his back - a target that might extend to his father. 

“Jordan and I already talked about that,” his dad tells him, nudging his pillow with his elbow as he sits up straighter. “Until things are settled, he agreed to live in our guest room.” There’s always a weird edge to that word like it doesn’t want to fit completely. A guest room. A room that used to be his mother’s retreat, a room for her to paint in, a room that was supposed to be turned into a nursery eventually. A room his grandparents then lived in until his dad was better. A room that only serves a purpose once a year around Christmas, when his grandparents come and visit them for the holidays. 

It’ll be weird to have Jordan live in it. Not necessarily a bad weird. Just… weird. 

“Okay,” Stiles says, tugging at his pants before leaning back against the chair again. “Good.” 

“We need to fix your bedroom as well,” his dad reminds him, and Stiles realizes that he totally forgot about the break-in. How could he forget about the break-in? His room isn’t a complete mess anymore, but his wall and mattress are still in a disastrous condition, and he needs a new crime board. Now, more than ever. 

Jordan leans back in his chair as well. “I’ll call a painter.” He massages the bridge of his nose for a second, then waves his hand around. “We’ll sort this out until Wednesday.” Seems like Stiles isn’t the only one who forgot all about the break-in mess, or maybe Jordan was way too focused on the drugs hidden in Stiles’ room. 

“We’ll sort everything out,” his dad assures him. 

Stiles nods, trying to hold onto this very hopeful statement. “Yeah, yeah, we will.” 

\----

“Thank you so much,” Stiles says, hoisting the backpack with the mostly non-lethal weapons over his shoulder. “I’ll bring them back later today.” 

Noshiko smiles at him, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She doubts his decision to train the chimera pack. Truth be told, she isn’t the only one. The curl of Jordan’s lips was quite telling, and neither Brett nor Isaac have expressed anything positive about the chimeras becoming an actual pack that knows how to use and combine their individual powers. Their worries give Stiles faith in his own abilities as a teacher, which is most likely not what they intended by voicing their doubts - and if they're already skeptical about the general idea of Stiles training the chimera pack, he really does not want to think about their reaction to breaking Peter out of Eichen. He has no clue how to break the news to them.

“Keep them as long as you need them,” Noshiko tells him, folding her hands in front of her. “The bo staff belongs to you anyway.” Her words are kind, but the smile curling around her lips still doesn't reach his eyes. It's a polite, yet not an earnest offer.

Kira eyes him curiously. “Can I join later?” 

“Sure,” Stiles says, grinning at her. “I’d love that.” For multiple reasons, to be honest. He’s still a bit hesitant to be fully alone with the chimera pack. Although he feels comfortable with Hayden, and Corey is a sweetheart, neither are actual shields he could use in case Theo comes too close - and since he started to feel almost a little too good next to him, Stiles greatly appreciates everyone who can potentially distract him from doing something very stupid. 

“Fantastic.” 

Noshiko studies him for a moment, her smile now more a tense line than anything else. It’s not that Stiles doesn’t have his own doubts about everything. In fact, giving power to the chimera pack  _ and _ using them to break out Peter is a combination of stupid ideas Stiles never thought he’d be capable of. Yet, here he is, ready to do both no matter the consequences. He has to make the decision between who is the bigger risk, and as of right now, the Dread Doctors are much more dangerous than the chimera pack and Peter together. Stiles has some dirt on the latter, and he can deal with Theo - at least up to a certain degree. But the Dread Doctors? They can’t even be negotiated with. Not that negotiating with anybody ever did anything good for them. 

Stiles tightens his grip on the strap of the bag. “I’ll text you the address?” 

“Yes, great.” 

“Cool,” Stiles says, glancing at Noshiko for a second before stepping away from the door, “see you later.” He waves, feeling horrendously awkward doing so and turns away from them. He doesn't blame anybody for doubting his decision to help Theo become stronger, not after everything he's done to them, but having a 900-year-old kitsune stare him down is different than dealing with Isaac calling him a bloody idiot. 

He opens the backdoor of Brett's shiny silver car and pushes the bag in Isaac's hands then slips into the passenger's seat. 

"Noshiko is so not happy about what you're doing," Brett informs him, starting his car.

Stiles nods. "I noticed."

“Why do you reckon she agreed?”

Brett scoffs. “Probably because the new nemeton and the Posh Spice of this territory are both shitheads and also in charge. Tragic, really.” He gears up a bit too aggressively for his liking, but it’s early on a Saturday morning. To be honest, it’s a miracle Brett even answered his phone when Stiles called him at seven a.m. He expected that he’d gone out last night, seeing that his grounding ended at 12 am on Saturday - just like Stiles’ did. 

"Hey, he didn't even ask me."

Stiles rolls his eyes.

"You could still say no," Brett informs him, sinking a bit deeper into his seat. “You are in charge, after all. Stiles is just here for the balance.”

_ Wow _ .

Isaac scoffs. "You clearly have never tried to say no to Stiles. It's like-" he stops mid-sentence and leans forward. "Brett, look at your hand, mate. Look at your  _ hand _ ."

Brett furrows his brows, glances into the rearview mirror, and then down at his hand. He does so at the same time as Stiles, suddenly realizing that Brett's hand found its place on his left leg, just above his knee. Stiles blinks, unable to remember when Brett even put it there, or why he would've done it. Did he bounce his leg? He might have bounced his leg. People usually get annoyed by that and force him to hold still. 

But did he really do that?

"Bloody hell," Isaac mutters.

Brett pulls his hand away, curling it into a fist before wrapping his fingers around the steering wheel, knuckles turning white. Something is going on, something Stiles doesn't know about. "Don't worry about it."

"Don't  _ worry about it _ ?" Isaac echoes disbelief and, grabbing Brett's seat, pulls himself forward. "I'm sorry, Mr. 'I don't understand why people are always so needy for TLC when it's so much easier to bang and move on' Talbot, did I hear that right?" That's so much information in a single sentence, it makes Stiles' head spin.  _ What the hell is going on? _ What does Brett’s aversion against a committed relationship have to do with anything?

Brett scoffs. "I don't know what you're talking about." 

"I’ve known you for almost six months now,” Isaac says, and it’s almost strange to hear a timeframe for their friendship. They seem so much closer. “The most I got from you was a condescending pat on the back. You know Stiles for two weeks and-"

"Shut up, Isaac."

_ Oh _ ? So, it's not normal for Brett to touch people, or what is he supposed to get here? Stiles doesn't quite understand what's going on. He thought it's normal for werewolves to be really physical with each other, especially for born werewolves. Is that not a thing? He assumed because of how the Hale Pack interacted with each other. 

"No," Isaac decides, flicking the shell of Brett's ear, "something's going on with you."

Brett swats at him. The car swerves to the right. 

"Can you  _ not  _ crash the car?" Stiles snaps, turning around to glare at Isaac. "Supernatural healing or not, you can bicker like kids when he's not flipping the bird at the speed limit." 

"Relax," Brett says, reaching out as if to pet his leg again, but he stops himself halfway and curls his fingers around the gearstick instead. "The streets are empty at ass o'clock in the morning." Empty streets don't mean they're accident-proof. Stiles has seen enough pictures of car crashes in his days. They don't always involve another car. 

Stiles massages his temple. “It’s half-past eight.”

Isaac kicks the back of Brett’s seat. “Swat at me one more time-” he snaps belatedly, almost as if it took him a moment to comprehend what happened. 

As expected, Brett doesn't miss a beat to reply, “Oh, and  _ what _ ? Huh? What are you gonna do? Cuss at me?”

“You’re such a twat, you know that?” 

Brett hums in agreement, unperturbed by Isaac’s darkening mood. There is a cloud of anger curling in the air of the car, thick and uncomfortable, all-encompassing. Brett has to notice it too, but werewolves probably aren’t all too bothered by the chemo-signals - especially not if they’re as in control as someone like Brett or Isaac. It’s a different story with Stiles. Ever since he received the nemeton’s power, and he took some of Scott’s pain, he is slowly getting more and more aware of those negative feelings around him. 

Shifting in his seat, Stiles opens the passenger’s window a crack. The sweetness of it all makes him feel sick to the stomach. He covers his mouth and closes his eyes, taking a deep breath when the cool morning air brushes over his face. 

He can feel Brett’s eyes on him, digging into his mind. “It’s fine, ya know?”  _ Fuck _ , is it really that obvious? Is it really that easy to spot? “Being attuned to anger is part of your nature now.”

“I hate that nature,” Stiles tells him, pressing his hands together. It’s hard to tell if he’s just more aware of everything around him now, like puzzle pieces finally clicking into place, or if he only notices it more because he noticed it yesterday, and now, he just can’t  _ stop _ noticing it. Either way, it sucks. He doesn’t want to enjoy anger or pain or whatever the fuck else his body is enjoying now, thanks to whatever the nogitsune did to him. 

Brett reaches out again, this time squeezing his thigh reassuringly. “You get used to it.” 

“What if I don’t want to?” Because the last thing he wants to do is enjoy other peoples’ pain or anger or make it a habit to provoke arguments, so he has something to feast on. 

“I reckon you have to,” Isaac says quietly, propping his chin on his palm. “You’re a nogitsune… partially, at least. Chaos, strife, and pain, that’s your thing now, innit?” With that, he summed up the whole problem. Despite everything, he managed to shoulder through, but ever since the nogitsune, Stiles lost his path. The sacrificial ice bath was pretty much the end of his free will. At least, that’s what it feels like. Because shortly after, the nogitsune jumped him, and from there on out, everything went downhill. He was struggling through the aftermath and ran after a bunch of assassins killing supernaturals. His six month break, he spent hypervigilant, flinching at his own reflection and triple-checking every single murder or assault case for hints of the supernatural. Then Theo came, and everything just blew up in Stiles’ face. Although it’s hardly Theo’s fault that the nemeton died and changed not only his whole being but also his life. If he wants to be nitpicky, it’s the darach and Deaton’s fault. 

Crossing his arms tightly over his chest, Stiles sinks deeper into his seat. Fuck the supernatural.

Brett exchanges a look with Isaac through the rearview mirror.

Fuck it  _ hard _ . 

Stiles glances at Brett again. “There’s something else I want to talk about.” Actually, there are two things, but he’s not going to bring up the Peter part of the conversation while they’re in a car. 

“That sounds vaguely concerning.” 

“It’s not,” Stiles assures him, then winces a little, “I think, at least.” He pauses again, frowning, and tries to ignore Isaac cackling. "We thought about filling the deputies in about-" ringing for words, he makes an all-encompassing gesture "-everything. And I want to ask-"

"If Satomi can help?" Brett finishes for him, lips curled into a small smile. "Usually, that's the job of the alpha of the territory the police department is located on… or, in your case, that's Isaac's job."

"Oh, bloody hell," Isaac says, shaking his head vehemently. "Are you mental? I'm not doing that." Despite everything, Isaac doesn’t seem to be friends with the idea that he owns a territory and is in charge of every supernatural creature walking among it. Which is fair. Stiles hasn’t allowed himself to think about what it  _ really  _ means to be the new nemeton because it’s a sure-fire way to send him spiraling into a terrible panic attack. 

He doesn’t have time for a panic attack. 

Brett taps his thumb against the steering wheel, rolling his eyes. 

Stiles clears his throat. “So, that’s… normal?” 

“Yup,” Brett replies, stressing the  _ p _ , “it’s common courtesy. Talia told Satomi the old sheriff was a shithead, so I guess that’s why your dad didn’t know about us.” Clicking his tongue, Brett glances at him out of the corner of his eye. So, his dad would've known about the supernatural if his successor hadn’t decided to stay silent. It’s hard to tell what would’ve changed, what could have been different. Maybe everything would have been so much easier. “I’ll talk to her,” Brett continues after a pause, tapping his thumb against the steering wheel again, “pretty sure she’ll help out.” A smile tugs at the corner of his lips. 

Stiles studies his profile for a moment. “Thanks.” 

“No problem. Maybe Posh Spice should join and take some notes.” 

“Oh, bugger off.” 

Stiles snorts out a laugh. Although he knows Isaac was born and lived in London until he came to live with his dad, Stiles will probably never get used to Isaac’s accent. He wonders if his return to London caused it to resurface, or maybe he wanted to cut everything out of his life that even slightly tied him to his dad after reconnecting with his roots. It makes sense. Starting over new. After Allison died, and his relationship with Derek and Scott was too broken to be fixed, getting a fresh start is what he deserved. 

“Hey, Isaac?” Stiles asks, suddenly unable to push his curiosity down. “Who’d you stay with in London?” He doesn’t know a lot about Isaac’s past. They started Middle School together, so Isaac must’ve moved to Beacon Hills sometime during summer break. Come to think of it, Stiles doesn’t even know  _ why _ Isaac moved to Beacon Hills. 

“My mum’s sister,” he answers, propping his right arm on Stiles’ seat. “Haven't seen them since I moved in with my father, and they're the only living relatives I have, so…" Trailing off, Isaac slumps back into his seat and crosses his arms.

_ Shit _ .

"I'm sorry," Stiles says, turning around to look at Isaac. "I didn't mean to-"

"It's cool." Isaac waves him off. "I have family." Even though he tries to be inconspicuous about it, Stiles catches his gaze darting in Brett's direction for a second. "Thanks to you," he adds then, smiling a little. 

Brett sighs. "You have responsibilities too."

"Fuck's sake," Stiles breathes, punching Brett's upper arm lightly. "You're such a mood killer." His knuckles ache a little, but the pain subsides almost immediately. 

"Hard to get in the mood with your brother in the backseat."

Isaac flips him off, but he grins.

Shaking his head, Stiles falls against the backrest and looks at the houses, cars, and trees zooming by. Family is such a weird concept sometimes. Everyone deserves to have one, even if they chose it themselves. It's great to see that Isaac found a family after losing his own. He seems content with Brett, happy almost. 

Stiles hopes Jordan will feel the same way once he finds his little brother. He deserves it.

\----

Corey eyes them curiously from the kitchen counter while Theo is unpacking the bag of groceries Stiles bought beforehand. He saw the contents of their fridge Thursday night, and he really wasn’t impressed. There was barely any food in there, and the stuff they had was the unhealthiest shit one could find in the supermarket. They may be partially supernatural, which incidentally comes with a fantastic metabolism - Stiles has seen enough werewolves eat to base this assumption on proper evidence - but that doesn’t mean they shouldn’t try and eat healthy. 

They sure as hell are going to have to switch up their diet when he’s a regular visitor at their house. Stiles goes rigid as the thought crosses his mind. No, not when.  _ If _ . For the time being. During this training. He’s not getting comfortable here. Not at all. Not even a little bit. 

“Watermelon!” Josh bursts into the room, still in what Stiles assumes are his pajamas and snatches the food right out of Theo’s hand. That Theo only rolls his eyes at him but doesn’t say anything about his behavior is very telling. They're on the right path. “Corey, get a plate. Come on.” Grabbing a knife, Josh darts out of the patio door, stumbling over his feet. 

Corey hops off the table and follows his friend dutifully after grabbing the first plate he could find. It’s nice to see that all this bullshit has been the foundation for something good. Josh and Corey seem to genuinely care about each other. Stiles can’t say he knew either of them very well, but that’s probably because they kept to themselves and were always alone at school - or not at all in Josh’s case.

"I feel  _ mothered _ ," Theo announces, pulling a net of apples out of the bag. 

Stiles returns his attention to him. "Did you see the inside of your fridge?"

"Do I look like I need to watch my diet?" Theo asks with a smirk on his lips, and the most provocative eyebrows raise this side of the universe. 

Stiles waves him off, turning around to try and make sense of the layout of this kitchen. "You look good." Where would containers be stored? Stiles knows the Raekens left everything behind when they fled Beacon Hills, there have to be containers somewhere. Unless Theo threw them all out. That's possible too. "Hey, where are your-" Stiles turns and breaks off, narrowing his eyes when he spots the expression on Theo's face. That smirk means  _ trouble _ . "What?"

"I knew you'd like what you see."

"I'm sorry?" How exactly did they move from the horrendous contents of his fridge to Theo thinking Stiles complimented him on his looks? What did he-  _ oh, no.  _ "I didn’t mean  _ that _ ," Stiles replies, ringing for words. He can't believe he ran headfirst into that and didn't even notice. "Listen, what I meant- I didn't mean you look  _ good _ , okay?" Stiles can feel the heat creep into his cheeks. Diving headfirst into the fridge sounds like an appropriate plan. So he turns around again, ignoring Theo’s quiet laughter.. "I'm just saying that you complained to me about processed food, and now I see tha-"

"Since when do you eat protein bars?" Theo interrupts him, his voice significantly cooler than before. It's not that Stiles isn't glad Theo completely derailed the topic on his own, he's just confused that he did it in the first place. Missing out on a chance like this is very unlike him.

Furrowing his brows, Stiles turns around. "A what?"

"A protein bar," Theo repeats almost impatiently and tosses the little package at him. 

Thankfully, his newfound reflexes saved him from being hit in the face. Stiles studies the package. "I think that's Brett's," he mutters, pieces clicking into place.  _ That's  _ why Theo's mood crashed. He already connected the dots. "Or Isaac's maybe." It certainly doesn't belong to Isaac. Stiles saw Brett eat a similar bar earlier today. He probably didn't notice when Stiles put it in his shopping bag while bickering with Isaac over nothing really important.

"You know I could've picked you up as well, right?" Theo reminds him, not even trying to hide his annoyance when he studies Stiles with narrowed eyes. 

Dropping the bar on the counter, Stiles shrugs. "I’m aware of that.” 

By the sound of it, Theo isn't satisfied with that answer. "You just preferred him."

“Oh my god.” Stiles can’t believe Theo is going there.  _ Nothing _ happened between him and Brett. That the guy is a bit flirty is just part of his character, and it’s not like he can’t afford it. Sure, Brett mentioned that he wouldn’t mind having sex with him, but that doesn’t mean anything. “Can’t you just drop it?” Stiles really isn’t in the mood to dissect this particular topic. He doesn’t have any non-platonic feelings for Brett. Zero. Zilch. He’s hot, and Stiles likes him, but not in the way he used to like Lydia. Not in the way he likes Theo. 

“No,” Theo says decisively. 

“I’m not going to stop seeing Brett just because your fragile ego cannot handle him,” Stiles says and slams the fridge door shut, not even sure why he opened it in the first place since Theo is still standing on the other side of the kitchen, unpacking the groceries - or so he thought. When Stiles turns around, Theo is  _ right there _ . Right in front of him. Too close. Much too close.

The smile curling around his lips does not reach his eyes. Either way, Theo erases even the last of the distance between them, bowing his head just enough to brush his nose along Stiles' throat. He doesn't hug him, he doesn't kiss him. He stands there, breathing him in, and Stiles doesn't know what the hell he should do about it. 

His heart hammers against his chest, either trying to escape or to meet Theo’s. He hates his body for it, hates that it's such a traitorous piece of shit. Instead of pushing him away, Stiles tightens his grip around the edge of the counter. He knows that his time is running out. He knows that he needs to get distance between them now, or he will get even closer - and Stiles really doesn't know what to do then.  _ This  _ is why he called Brett. This is exactly why he's relieved that Kira wants to come over and that Brett and Isaac decided to check on the chimeras' progress. 

Neither is going to help him right now.

Stiles turns his head away, tries to get out of this situation somehow, but his body is actively working against him. He wants this. He wants it  _ so bad _ . He wants the way Theo makes him feel, wants the way Theo wants him - destructive and all-consuming - wants the way Theo cares about him in his own twisted way. Stiles craves the chaos Theo comes with, the mess,  _ everything _ because he feels good in the worst kind of way. 

Theo laughs silently, his breath ghosting over the side of his neck. His own breath catches in Stiles’ throat, and he stiffens, taking a deep breath as Theo presses his body against his - but only for a moment. Stiles picks up on the faint sound of paper crinkling, and then Theo moves away, twisting the protein bar between his index and middle finger. “I doubt Talbot will miss it,” he notes, ripping the package open with his teeth.

What a  _ dick _ . 

Stiles scoffs and folds his arms over his chest. “You can discuss that with him when he comes later today.” 

It’s quite satisfying to watch all the smugness drain from Theo’s face. “Why?” 

"Why not?"

"Because I don't want him here," Theo says without hesitation, narrowing his eyes even further. Anger returns, thick and palpable. It's not pleasant, but the open space makes it bearable. Stiles isn't surprised about Theo's reaction, either. Of course, he's going to be pissed if Brett comes over. Now, it remains to be seen if Theo gives in to his jealousy or decides to be a grown-up person. 

Stiles decides to push the topic. “So, I’ll train you somewhere that’s not your property, that means Isaac is in charge.” 

Theo sneers. "The little lord and his guard dog.” Shaking his head, he breaks off a piece of the protein bar. For a moment, he studies it, clearly disapproving of whatever he is seeing, then drops both halves on the kitchen counter. If he spits on it, then he’d certainly paint an even more vivid picture than he already does, but even Theo has his limits it seems. He taps a finger against the edge of the counter, then crosses his arms and turns to look at him. “Does Isaac know about your attempt at a low-budget Prison Break remake?” 

The question is something Stiles should've expected, yet he feels put on the spot. He doesn’t want to answer it either, and it’s not as if Theo doesn’t know the answer already. Pushing his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants, Stiles watches Corey and Josh happily munch on their watermelon. “I forgot how rich your parents are,” he says, not even trying to come up with something less obvious. He just really doesn’t want to talk about the fact that Stiles did not tell Isaac about wanting to break out Peter. 

Theo scoffs. “My parents bought the biggest house they could afford so we could better avoid each other.” 

_ Great _ .

Stiles sighs. "I didn't tell Isaac,  _ yet _ ." His comment from earlier doesn’t make the whole confession any easier. He doesn’t want Isaac to say yes just because he doesn’t want to put up discussing with him. Stiles knows he’s a nuisance when he wants something. He’s well aware that he’ll annoy the hell out of people to get to his goal. Sometimes, he goes as far as to manipulate them. But Stiles wouldn’t manipulate Isaac. If Isaac really said no, and if he meant it, Stiles doesn’t know if he’d go through with it. 

Or if he could. 

Sure, as far as he knows, the nemeton is in charge of the balance and is guarded by whatever pack lives on its territory. Still, he doesn’t know what might happen if Isaac really were to put down his foot. It’s entirely possible that he can’t do anything any longer. Stiles wants Peter out. He  _ needs _ Peter out to gather the information he wants and needs, the information he craves. If he tells Isaac, and Isaac says no, and Stiles cannot do anything about it, then he made a promise he won’t be able to fulfill. 

He’d hate it if he had to break a promise. 

Raising his brows, Theo studies him for a while. “You think he’ll say no.” 

Stiles is pretty sure Isaac will call him insane. “Our relationship with Peter is complicated.” But it’s not just that. Considering how reluctant Brett and Isaac have been when Stiles told them that he wants to visit Peter, he can’t begin to imagine what their reaction will be once he tells them about his plan to break him out. “And I’m worried about Brett refusing to help.” 

Theo scoffs again, his features hardening. “We don’t need Brett.” 

“Oh, so  _ you _ want to keep Peter under control in case he plans to betray me?” Stiles shoots back, pushing himself away from the kitchen counter. “Because he’s a born werewolf. Older and more experienced than Brett. I distinctly remember that he didn’t have much of a problem putting you into place. If Brett could do it-”

“I  _ get  _ it,” Theo snarls, both his hands curled into tight fists against his side. 

Stiles presses his lips into a thin line and stares back at him, sensing a thin fog of anger spreading in the room. It’s hard to ignore it, but he tries his best, tries to focus on Theo instead of the cocktail of emotions. “I-”

“Trouble in paradise?” Tracy drawls, leaning against the doorframe. Something about the grin curling around her mouth makes Stiles’ skin crawl. 

Theo straightens his posture, shifts his expression into an indifferent mask. “Where have you been?” 

"I was craving coffee," she tells him, raising the paper cup with the bright green logo of a coffee shop in downtown Beacon Hills. She went pretty far for craving coffee. There are at least two coffee shops close by that are much better than the one she chose.

Glancing at Theo reveals that he has doubts as well. He works his jaw a couple times then rolls his shoulders back as if to ease any lingering tension. "Where's Hayden?" he asks, instead of pushing the subject. 

Tracy shrugs. "Why should I know?" 

Stiles wonders how far she can push him, how much Theo allows her to. "Maybe Valerie is running late," he says, and Theo returns his attention to him. "I can call her if you want." Stiles doesn't offer this to diffuse the situation. He doesn't even offer this to be in Theo’s good books. Despite everything, he merely offered to do this to demonstrate how easy it is for him to recapture Theo's attention. 

Her expression turns sour as she notices that. "She's my pack member," Tracy announces almost a little too loudly, "I'll call her."

Theo doesn't look away from Stiles, and Tracy doesn't look away from Theo. Time drags its feet, tightens its hold. It's hard to breathe, all of a sudden, hard to focus on what's right in front of him - hard to focus on what he shouldn't want. Because right now, Stiles itches to cross the room, itches to show Tracy exactly that she doesn't mean anything to Theo; not as much as Stiles does. He despises this part of him. Neither with Lydia nor with anyone else, has he been like this. Stiles never disliked Jackson because he dated Lydia, but with Tracy, it's different. He loathes her. He loathes her for having something Stiles denies himself. 

Only when Theo finally turns to look away, time seems to return to its normal course. "Are you waiting for something?" he asks Tracy, who purses her lips, then shifts his attention back to Stiles. "When are they coming?"

"Around lunchtime."

Again, Theo works his jaw, but his expression is carefully neutral. Stiles wonders if he knows that he can read him regardless. Not all the time. It gets easier, however, the more time they’re spending together. 

He’s not quite sure that’s a good thing. 

“Then let’s start,” Theo says, nodding his head in the direction of Corey and Josh, who are devouring the watermelon as if they haven’t had any food in a week. “No time to waste.” He doesn’t wait for a reply from Stiles, but glances over his shoulder. “Hayden can join in when she’s here. Corey and Josh need… a bit more training than her.” 

\----

Stiles quickly realizes what Theo meant by that. Corey is terrified of hurting Stiles and doesn’t make any move towards him. He’s passive in the fight, only grabs Josh’s hand to help him become invisible. It’s probably an attempt to sneak up on Stiles, but they’re  _ loud _ . He doesn’t need supernatural hearing to notice them sneaking up on him. The two times they manage to pull it off, Josh merely touches his shoulder. 

Hayden fights. She’s not necessarily going all out, but at the very least, she’s getting some punches in - and she uses her chance when Stiles is distracted by Theo pulling off his shirt for no particular reason. He’s not joined the practice yet, and instead only studies his chimeras.

It's not clear what he's waiting for. 

Stiles massages his shoulder, eyeing Hayden as she studies his movements. It’s more out of habit than anything else because the ache is gone almost immediately. It’s a strange sensation. Even though she didn’t use all her strength, Stiles should’ve felt the aftermath of that punch for at least a week. Now, it barely lasted half a minute. Narrowing his eyes, Stiles shifts his grip on the bo staff. “You shouldn’t give your enemy time to think,” he tells her, focusing on the slight gust of wind around them. “Use every distraction because they sure as hell will.” He knows it’s cheating. He knows it’s unfair, but maybe if they realize he isn’t going to hold back, they won’t either. 

Magic dances on his fingertips. 

Hayden growls. Her eyes flash, but she grins, and it’s her sudden amusement that makes him suspicious. 

Narrowing his eyes, Stiles quickly checks his surroundings. Tracy is watching them over the rim of her sunglasses. Josh is nibbling on his watermelon. Corey is missing.  _ Asshole _ . Stiles turns to the right, the opposite direction he’d seen Theo in last. If he really thinks he’s that stupid, then he will have a very rude awakening. Without hesitation, he lets go of the bo staff and raises his right hand. It's easier than ever before to focus on the ley lines and the power he can harness. Stiles hears the gentle hum, feels the wind bending to his will as it rushes towards its goal. 

A second later, he hears a groan and a yelp. Corey appears out of nowhere, flinging through the air. Stiles feels bad as he lands on his ass, groaning audibly, but he doesn't have time for that. Corey seems to have caught the most of the attack because Theo found his balance again and is rushing towards him. Stiles has neither the time to plan something nor to gather another wave of wind, so he brings the bo staff up. 

Theo's arm connects with it with enough force that Stiles feels the impact vibrating in his arms. Theo bares his teeth in a grin, eyes bright with excitement. It's clear that he will give it his all, and Theo is aware of his weaknesses. Even as a chimera, he easily overpowers him in physical strength, especially during daylight. Stiles is faster, however, and he has magic on his side. However, as long as he needs time to imagine and create it, Theo's connection to the ley lines is like an early warning system. 

Theo knows whenever he plans to use it. For now, Stiles will have to rely on his speed, until using magic comes as instinctive as breathing.

Stiles glances around, trying to assess where the closest shadowy place might be. Just because it’s a sparring session, doesn’t mean Stiles isn’t going to try and win. He’ll just have to level the playing field. It’s a mistake he almost immediately regrets. Theo swipes at him, claws out. It's a surprise and a thrill that he really goes all out for this practice. Stiles backs away, but his claws tear through his shirt with little to no resistance. 

"I happen to like that shirt."

Theo smirks. "I'd like you without it."

Stiles blinks, then retaliates by slamming the tip of the bo staff against Theo's sternum. The chimera groans and laughs at the same time, rubbing the abused spot as if it hardly had any effect. Maybe his ego is a better shield than previously anticipated.

Shaking his head, Stiles moves back. Theo switches gears immediately and charges forward. It’s a short dance with only inches separating them. The moment Stiles finds his balance after dodging, however, he realizes that Theo didn’t mean to hit him - he cut him off. Now, Stiles has the house in his back, too far away and protected by Hayden and Josh. Theo, on the other hand, stands between him and the large shadows the trees are casting.  _ Great _ . 

As good as Stiles might be when it comes to improvising, Theo has years of experience in fighting. He knows what to anticipate, and he knows how to counter. The last time they fought like this, Stiles ended up underneath him. It’s not exactly a result he hopes for. 

Consciously, at least. Stiles is fully aware that his body is a traitorous piece of shit.

His bo staff worked fine against Kira. She still kicked his ass, but at the very least, he only had her katana to worry about. Things are different with Theo. Maybe, he will have to switch his routine up a bit. When Theo bares his teeth again, taunting him to do something, Stiles switches his weapon to his right hand, willing it to go slack. It does almost immediately, one end curling in the grass like a silvery snake. 

For a second, confusion crosses Theo’s features. That’s the second Stiles needs. Shifting his feet into a secure stance, Stiles swings the chain forward. Briefly, he wonders if Ken designed it specifically to serve as a whip  _ and  _ a bo staff, depending on the situation. Right now, Theo not knowing about it works in his favor. The chain wraps around his throat, and Stiles yanks at it with everything he has. It’s not enough to trip him up, but as Theo stumbles out of the way, trying to get his balance back. Stiles has the chance to dash past him. He lets go of the bo staff.

Theo growls, not angry, but definitely irritated.

As Stiles picks up the bag with the weapons sitting on the grass, a chain clatters against the patio's expensive flooring. That’s out of reach now. Stiles can only hope he made a good decision. He unzips the bag and pulls the two Sai out, tossing the open bag out of his way. The second he’s standing in the shadow of a tree, Stiles stops and spins around.

Theo has already caught up to him. He’s grinning again, clearly getting a kick out of this little fight. When he goes in for another attack, thankfully without his claws this time, Stiles raises the Sai to block him. Not missing a beat, Stiles brings his foot up, kicking Theo in the stomach. Despite his own supernatural strength, it resembles kicking a stone wall. It brings results, however. With a groan, Theo takes a couple steps back. 

The second he regains his balance, Theo lunges at him. Stiles shifts to the side. To no avail. Theo still catches him around the waist and slams him face-first against the tree. He uses his whole body to keep him pinned there.

Stiles’ mind blanks. 

_ Oh, god, not now _ . 

Theo chuckles, runs his nose along the nape of his neck. He knows no shame, none at all. “Come on,” he whispers, lips pressing against the shell of his ear, “defend yourself, little fox.” 

A shudder runs down his spine, and Stiles can’t believe his body is hating him so much. He squeezes his eyes shut, tries not to think about the warmth radiating off Theo’s body, the hard lines against his back, his-

“You should do something,” Theo continues, his warm breath brushing over the side of Stiles’ neck, “or people might think you want this.” For a brief second, he presses his lips at the spot just behind his ear. Stiles struggles to remain neutral when, in reality, he can't describe the pang of want exploding inside of him. 

Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Stiles drops the Sai, presses his hands against the tree and his body against Theo's. The strong grip around his arms loosens. Stiles licks his lips, focusing on what he needs to do, instead of what he wants. Because right now, every single fiber of his body begs him to turn around, crush their mouths together and let Theo take whatever he wants. Even the voice always warning him is merely an echo. Stiles knows that he will cave the moment he loses his grip on his fragile control.

With a chuckle, Theo dances his fingers over Stiles' skin. "You could have everything," he whispers, nosing his jaw, completely ignorant to his pack not too far away. "I would give you the world." 

For what it's worth, Stiles believes him. 

Bracing for impact, he slams his head back, feeling it collide painfully with Theo's. The hands vanish, as does the body behind him. Theo tumbles back, and Stiles allows himself a second to lean against the tree, using it to stay upright as he picks up one Sai. Then he turns around, watching Theo wipe blood from under his nose. 

Stiles' pain vanishes the moment Theo's nose stops bleeding. This time, however, he's faster. Before the chimera can make a move, his expression a bizarre combination of irritation and excitement, Stiles raises his hand. "Bow down," he demands, and it takes merely a second for the order to take effect. He knows he doesn't control Theo, and Theo most definitely knows it as well, but it certainly adds to his satisfaction when the air around him forces Theo to do his bidding. "And on your knees." 

Theo snarls, but his feeble attempt to fight against the air forcing him to kneel is in vain. 

Crouching down in front of him, Stiles places the tip of the Sai underneath his chin, raising it enough so they can see eye to eye. "Don't ever call me little fox again."

Theo grins. There's blood on his teeth.

They took a break then started over. The second round of practice goes better, not by much, but at the very least the chimeras aren’t as shy anymore. They attack in teams now. Josh and Corey, as well as Hayden and Corey. Turns out, the former make a rather strong team. Mostly because they are used to each other. They  _ know _ each other, and they don’t exactly make it easy on him. Twice Stiles has to get himself out of a pickle by using magic. Josh calls it cheating. Theo tells him to suck it up. 

Stiles grinds his teeth. He wouldn’t even be in that situation if not for Tracy. She’s not planning on contributing to the practice, and Stiles can’t exactly complain about that because he’s sure he would not be as forgiving for any of her mistakes. Where Hayden is knocked to the floor, Tracy might end up with a broken bone. She provokes it. There’s no denying that, and she still deserves retribution for punching him. Right now, however, he needs to stop being distracted by her. After all, that’s what she wants, that’s her goal. That’s why she’s constantly sliding up to Theo even when he brushes her off. She remains by his side, whispers something in his ear, touches him - and she keeps looking at Stiles while doing so, thinking she won some race.

It happens when Tracy whispers something in Theo’s ear again, when he turns his head towards her, eyebrows drawn together in confusion, it happens, when she leans over as if to kiss him - Corey and Josh appear out of nowhere right in front of him. Stiles jumps, a wave of shock colliding with his anger. For a second, Josh's fist hovers directly in front of Stiles' nose. He can  _ feel _ it touching him. Then, everything that kept the chimeras in place explodes outwards. 

Stiles instantly knows something went horribly wrong. 

Corey slams onto the unforgiving marble tiles. Josh is luckier and drops in the pool. 

Stiles throws his bo staff away and rushes back to the patio. "Corey!" He reaches him before Hayden does, spotting the blood near his head. "Corey- no,  _ fuck _ ." Heart hammering in his chest, Stiles falls to his knees, trying to assess the damage. Rationally, he knows that even a small head wound bleeds a lot, but the fact that Corey has one makes bile rise in his throat. When Stiles said he wanted them to pretend this is serious, he did not mean  _ that _ . 

Josh heaves himself out of the pool. “ _ Dude _ -” 

Out of the corner of his eyes, Stiles notices Hayden rising to her feet. A cloud of anger is moving with her. He’s not sure why she would leave - hopefully because Corey is fine - but a quiet groan recaptures his attention. Stiles reaches out a hand, but Theo grabs it, stopping him in his tracks. He doesn’t say anything, and Stiles doesn’t pull away. 

“Ow.” Corey groans, holding the back of his head and pushes himself upright. “ _ Fuck _ .” That’s probably the first time he heard him swear. Even Josh studies his friend in surprise. 

Stiles curls his fingers around Theo’s. “I’m so sorry.” His throat closes up, and he almost chokes on his words. “I-”

Corey pulls his hand away from his head, frowning a little as he scrutinizes the blood on his fingertips. “It’s okay.” 

“I didn’t mean to-” he cuts himself off, biting the inside of his cheek hard. The thing is, he did mean to, but Corey wasn’t his intended target. Stiles wanted to hurt Tracy. His chest constricts, and he sits back, pressing his free hand to his temple for a second. This is not  _ like  _ him. He doesn’t get violently jealous. He never has been before.  _ Yes _ , he lost his temper.  _ Yes _ , he’s had issues with anger before. But not like this. Not out of jealousy. He doesn’t own Theo, and even if they dated, it’s Theo who has to tell Tracy to back off. Stiles cannot make this decision for him.

“I know,” Corey says, looking up at him with a small smile. “And I’ve healed already. It’s the first thing Theo taught us, you know?” 

Glancing at Theo, Stiles releases his cheek, scowling at the metallic taste in his mouth. “That’s… good. Smart.” He nods, swallows, and finally manages to let go of Theo’s hand. 

“I probably should wash my hair,” Corey muses, tugging on a bloody strand. 

“That’s a good-” Josh cuts off, widening his eyes. 

Stiles whips his head around at the sound of what seems to have been a resounding slap to the face. Her brown hair covers most of her expression. He sees Tracy pressing a hand to her cheek, head turned away from Hayden, who still has her hand raised. It’s almost as if she considers to backhand her as well. Curling it into a fist, she lowers her hand a moment later, then turns on her heels and strides back to them. 

“She had it coming,” is all she says when Theo looks at her, quirking his brow. 

He doesn’t reply anything and instead raises to his feet with a small shake of his head. “Come on,” Theo says, offering Stiles his hand, “let’s get you some clean clothes.” There’s blood on his pants, and his shirt is still torn. Different clothes sound like a good idea. 

Without a word, Tracy storms off. Part of him wants to say she deserved it.  _ She _ pushed Stiles. It was her intent to provoke him, yet he should have his powers better under control by now. He should be able to keep his anger in check. But what if he can’t? What if that’s something that’s out of his control? 

Looking at the ground, Corey gets up as well and tugs at a bloody strand again. His legs are steady, his skin far from sickly pale. He’s fine. He’s okay. Pressing the balls of his hands to his eyes, Stiles takes a deep breath, trying his best to calm his nerves. But he’s far from calm, and he doesn’t trust his own legs for a second when he takes Theo’s hand and is pulled on his feet. 

“I mean,” Josh says, scratching the side of his neck, “it was kinda fun.” 

Hayden scoffs.

“For you maybe,” Corey mutters, nudging the other boy with his elbow. He’s grinning, however, and looks up at Stiles after a few seconds. “Although, the flying was cool.” 

“Wash your hair,” Hayden tells him, gently pushing Corey in the direction of the patio door. “And you,” she adds, pointing at Josh, “dry clothes.  _ Go _ .” Muttering under their breath, the two boys follow her command, then Hayden turns to Theo and him. Her gaze lingers on their hands - Stiles can feel the heat rising in cheeks as he realizes he’s holding Theo’s hand again - and twists a strand of hair around her index finger. “I’ll clean this up,” she decides after a moment of silence, an almost nervous smile around her lips. 

Theo nods and tugs at Stiles’ hand. “Come on.”

Taking a steadying breath, Stiles lets go and folds his arms protectively in front of his chest. He notices Theo’s fingers twitch, sees how he curls them into a tight fist for all but a second. The silence around them is heavy, is something Theo cannot deal with, and Stiles refuses to break, too afraid of the consequences. He follows him, eyes directed at the floor. Stiles is telling himself he’s doing it to avoid Josh’s wet footprints, but for the most part, he cannot look at Theo without feeling small, without feeling the need to grab his hand again and hold onto him.

They climb the stairs and walk down the hallway to Theo’s room. The silence stays as Theo rummages through his dresser for fresh clothes. Even after Theo leaves the room to give Stiles some privacy, the silence is choking him. Getting undressed and dressed again happens on autopilot, but he doesn’t leave the room. Neither does he put his dirty clothes away. It doesn’t matter. He won’t get the blood out of his sweatpants, and the shirt is ripped anyway. It’s easier to just throw them away. 

Swallowing dryly, Stiles steps away from the heap of clothes on the floor and drops onto the bed, hiding his face in his hands. He hurt Corey. He  _ really _ hurt him, and Stiles has no one to blame for that but himself. It’s on him, plain and simple because there’s some part of him that’s ruthlessly violent. It isn’t even the first time something like this happened. He almost killed Theo that one time. But that was before he had his powers under control. He should be better now. He should be able to do this. Instead, he lost control again. This cannot keep happening, but there’s a part of him that wants to punish Tracy, a part of him that would enjoy her pain. What he cannot tell is if that’s the same part that wants to be with Theo, or if that’s just him. How does he differentiate between himself, the nemeton, and what’s left of the nogitsune?  _ Can _ he even separate them? Maybe it’s all him. Maybe all their wishes and desires have merged.

“Corey is fine,” Theo tells him as he enters his bedroom, “and he’s not mad at you.” 

Stiles crosses his arms over his thighs and looks up. “I still injured him.” 

“You broke my nose,” Theo reminds him, smiling a little, and pushes away from the closed door. “But that’s not what this is about.” 

Looking back down again, Stiles shakes his head. No, that’s not what this is about at all. Sure, he didn’t mean to break Theo’s nose. He’s aware that Theo hardly cares that it happened, Stiles still needs to adjust to the fact that physical pain weighs less than it used to do. "What if I kill someone by accident one day?" Stiles whispers, fiddling with the hem of Theo's hoodie. It's only a little too big on him although he's the taller one. But muscles go a long way, it seems. "I almost killed you."

Theo places his hand over Stiles. His skin is soft and warm, his grip reassuring. "It's normal. We all went through it.” Imagining Theo struggling for control seems absurd. Even as a little kid, he always was so composed, and now he’s trying to tell him that he had problems with his control? That’s cute.

“No, it’s- it’s not my powers I can’t control.” 

“It’s your anger.” 

Stiles winces a little, but nods. “Yeah.” Part of him wonders if he should be more careful about what he admits to Theo, but he’s not entirely sure it matters. Theo knows him in a way few people do, and as scary as that may be, it is also relieving. It's easier not having to pretend so much. "I hate her," Stiles whispers, curling his hands into tight fists, his knuckles turning white.

"I don't care about her," Theo says, instinctively knowing who he's talking about, but it’s probably not that hard to figure out. It’s not like there have been a lot of girls who’ve pissed him off recently. Inching closer, Theo lets go of his hands and curls his arm around Stiles’ shoulders. “I’ve told you that before.” He presses his lips to his shoulder, and Stiles shudders, closing his eyes. 

“It’s not about that,” Stiles says, allowing himself to relax in the embrace, but he doesn’t elaborate. He can’t. Not with Theo. Despite whatever he feels for him, despite knowing that Stiles trusts Theo with his life, the truth gets stuck underneath his jaw, refusing to come out. It’s not even Theo per se that’s preventing him from spilling the truth - it’s years of being scorned, of trying to achieve a standard he couldn’t meet, it’s police reports and emergency calls, it’s wanting to prove himself wrong about why the nogitsune might’ve chosen him. 

Theo props his right leg on the bed, his knee nudging Stiles’ left shoulder blade. “What’s it about then?” 

Stiles shakes his head and turns to look at Theo, studying his face for a few seconds. His expression is soft, almost understanding, as if he could have an inkling of what Stiles isn’t saying. Maybe he knows, maybe he can tell what this truly is about, and maybe all he wants is to make Stiles feel better when he cups his jaw, raising his head just a little. 

His intent is clear, yet Theo hesitates, gaze flicking back and forth between Stiles' eyes and his mouth. Eventually, he leans forward, brushes his lips against Stiles'. Although he knew Theo wanted to, his stomach drops, and his mind goes completely silent. Stiles doesn't know what to do. He curls his hands into fists, even though he doesn't want to punch Theo. Pushing him off should be the instinctual reaction, yet Stiles allows him to press his mouth firmer against his. It feels desperate, fingers tightening slightly at his jaw, then loosen to settle on the side of his neck. 

Stiles doesn't have it in him to move away, so he waits for Theo to do it - and he does only a few seconds later. Theo gets up from the bed, taking all his warmth away. "Kira arrived," he tells him, an edge to his voice.

"I'm sorry," Stiles says because he is. He's sorry for allowing him to get close but denying him everything else. He's sorry that he can't give Theo what he wants. He's sorry that he wants it even though he feels terrible for it. "I really am, Theo."

A tang of anger fills the space between them as Theo turns to look at him. "I wish I could tell if you're lying to me."

"I need to figure something out first."

"Let me  _ help. _ "

Stiles shakes his head again, raising to his feet. "You can't," he whispers, offering a smile. "This time, you can't." But Stiles already knows who can.

\----

Fingers dancing across the rim of her cup, Kira studies him. She was surprised when he came out of the house with the bag of weapons over his shoulder, dressed in Theo's clothes. She was confused when he asked if he could talk to her, alone, and that it's important. But she ended up strangely calm when he asked her his question.  _ What is you, and what’s your fox _ ? It's a simple question, really, but Kira has been quiet for a long time now. Maybe it’s impossible to distinguish. Maybe it’s different for him. There are a lot of answers to this question, but Stiles needs to know the truth. 

He has to know it before he faces Theo again. 

Kira takes a sip of her tea. “Your fox is an extension of you,” she says, tipping her head to the side, “unless someone manipulates it.” A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth, but it’s hard to tell if she’s cracking a joke. Not everyone shares his sense of humor, and everything is still pretty recent. 

“So… everything I feel is… me?” 

“Essentially.”

Stiles can’t deny that he’s relieved. Scared, but relieved. At the very least, this time, nothing has any sort of control over him, even though sometimes those emotions make him feel like a stranger in his own body. That means he can trust his gut again, that means he can trust his feelings - especially the ones for Theo. It’s good because that means he can finally decide what to do with them. It’s terrible because that means over the course of their time together, Stiles did really develop feelings for him.

_ Huh _ . 

The realization comes with less fanfare and devastation than he first anticipated. Perhaps he’s already in too deep. Maybe it’s too on brand, desiring something that’s bad for him. 

Kira taps a finger against the side of her cup. “Why do you ask?” 

For a second, Stiles wonders if he should tell her the whole truth instead of just parts of it. Maybe if he finally spits it out, the whole thing will become easier to deal with. Lydia wasn’t bothered about him being attracted to Theo, how much worse can feelings be? He grimaces, then sighs and sinks into the uncomfortable bench in the far corner of the empty diner. The waitress hasn’t been with them for the past ten minutes, too invested in whatever is happening on her phone. He could use another coffee, but he doesn’t have the energy for her foul mood. 

Stiles bounces his leg and crosses his arms in front of his chest. “I’ve been angry recently. Irrationally angry…” he trails off, bites the inside of his left cheek hard, before looking at her. “I wanna hurt… people.” When Kira draws her eyebrows together, Stiles lowers his gaze. “Today, I got so angry, I lost control of my power and ended up hurting Corey. He didn’t do anything to me. He was just... there.” 

Kira is silent. 

Stiles looks up when the doorbell jingles, signaling the entry of a customer. It’s a small family. A mother, a father, and their little son. The waitress merely glances at them before returning her attention back to her phone. 

“Well,” Kira says, setting her cup down, “your fox is linked to emotions. It’s entirely possible that it affects your anger like mine affects electricity.”

“So, you’re saying that anger is me but cranked up to a hundred?” 

Kira grimaces, but she nods. “I suppose.” 

“Is there a way to calm it down?” Stiles asks, hoping against his better judgment that perhaps he can learn a little trick or a nice mantra, so his anger stops working against him. There’s nothing he can do about his feelings for Theo, aside from either giving in or ignoring them, so his main focus should be on not being a hazard for those around him any longer. 

Another silence, heavier but much shorter than the previous one. Kira traces a crack in the polished wood absentmindedly. “When did it start?”

“What do you mean?” 

“I’ve always been a kitsune, but I had to cause a blackout before I started noticing it. As if it…” she trailed off, tilting her head to the side as if to contemplate her next words, “well, as if it needed something to wake up.” 

Stiles lets out a breath and closes his eyes. “After the party,” he says, curling his fingers around his empty cup, “after I took Scott’s pain by accident.” He remembers his panic, remembers his body going crazy, remembers how he lost control for the first time shortly after, and almost killed Theo in the process. 

“This is going to sound insane,” Kira warns him, leaning closer in an almost conspiratorial manner, “but maybe try and give your fox what it wants.” 

That had to be a joke. She couldn’t possibly be serious about this. Stiles stares at her, feeling as if she just threw a bucket of ice-cold water in his face. “Yeah,” he breathes, his words sharper than he intended for them to be, “you are fucking insane.”

“Stiles-”

“You do remember what a nogitsune craves, don’t you?” Stiles snaps, barely resisting the urge to push away from the table. This conversation went in a completely different direction than previously anticipated. He thought Kira would tell him that kitsunes could use mantras too, or that there is some way to anchor them - but  _ giving it pain _ ? That’s crazy. 

Again, she doesn’t immediately reply; instead, she squeezes her index fingers together for a moment. Her hair falls over her shoulders, partially hiding her face. Kira sighs, interlocking her fingers. “It’s just… after I came back from-” she stops, clears her throat, and looks up at Stiles, a small smile on her lips. “I broke up with Scott shortly after we arrived home.”  _ Oh _ . The confession doesn’t come as the biggest surprise. Her sitting next to Lydia in AP Biology was already a big hint. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m thankful he saved me from the Skinwalkers, but he-” Kira shifts a little on her seat. 

“You don’t have to talk about it,” Stiles offers. She clearly feels uncomfortable opening up to him about whatever happened between her and Scott. They’re friends, but they’re not that close. Yet. Stiles would like if that changed, not only to have a kitsune around him he trusted and who actually knew what she was doing - more or less. He liked her. 

Kira nods and takes a breath. “Well, while I’m dealing with everything going on, I am the calmest when I’m playing around with electricity. Nothing major. I just take a lightbulb and turn it on and off, on and off. It’s cathartic.” 

Stiles understands where she’s coming from, but there’s a major difference between playing around with electricity and craving pain and anger. Even if taking someone’s pain calms him, he’s not sure he can do that.  _ How _ could he take someone’s pain to appease his fox? “I understand, but-”

“Do you trust me?” Kira grabs his wrist. 

He wants to say yes, because he does trust her, almost more than he trusts Noshiko. “What if this backfires? What if that doesn’t calm it down but makes it more agitated?” 

“Then we’ll do it tomorrow during training,” Kira says, a determination in her voice that Stiles has never heard before. “Isaac and Brett will be there, I’m there. Theo is.” She smiles again, drawing a small circle on the back of his hand. “And we’re far away enough from the city. It’s going to be fine.”

That sounds like a disaster waiting to happen. Stiles can’t believe he’s agreeing to this. “I hope you know what you’re doing.” 

“I don’t.” Kira laughs at her own admission, and it’s impossible to be angry with her. “But it’s worth a shot, don’t you think?”


	32. on the corner of bitter and sweet

"Are you  _ mental _ ?" Isaac asks, pauses, and points a finger at Stiles. "Don't answer that.” Shaking his head, he crosses his arms on the dining table. It’s pretty much the reaction Stiles anticipated. After all, his own was quite similar. He’s still not entirely sure if it’s a good idea to go through with Kira’s plan. Yes, there’s a chance that it works out, but the consequences of it going wrong are enormous. There’s no way they can predict what might happen. 

Brett presses his lips into a thin line as he studies Stiles for a while. His face is almost impossible to read, although he has a hunch about what he might think of this particular reaction. Eventually, he lets out a breath and shrugs. “It’s worth a shot.” 

Isaac whips his head around. “ _ What _ ?” 

“It’s worth a shot,” Brett repeats, speaking a little louder, and grins when Isaac bristles next to him. 

Stiles kicks his shin, feeling satisfied when the werewolf scrunches up his face. They’re trying to find a way for Stiles to control his anger, and here the idiot goes out of his way to annoy Isaac. That’s not going to go anywhere.

“If you ask me-” Theo says.

"Well, nobody asked you, Thiebalt,” Isaac cuts in sharply, without looking away from Brett.

Theo simply glares at him.

Seconds pass without anybody saying anything.

Stiles stiffens, tapping his finger against his thigh. To be honest, he wouldn’t be at all surprised if Isaac decides to just lunge at Brett. His anger spikes significantly, enough so that Stiles decides he needs some distance. He’s worried that it’s his fault in the first place. He’s afraid that he might make it worse by simply sitting here. All his powers and abilities, all the things he can and can’t do, are still a mystery to him. Perhaps training with the chimeras isn’t only training  _ for _ the chimeras. 

Especially today. 

Brett’s gaze is heavy on him when Stiles pushes away from the table. His attempt to do so inconspicuously is stopped by the chair’s feet scraping over the expensive wooden flooring. Theo turns his head to look at him, so do Kira and Isaac. Stiles rubs his hands together, trying not to fidget, and gets to his feet. Their gazes are heavy, expectant. Stiles didn’t mean to say something, he simply wanted to get away from the table, but now it seems as if he has to. “I wanna try it,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “We’ll be careful, of course. Do it little by little.” 

Theo huffs out a breath. “If we’re being reasonable,” he says, and his voice is calm yet insistent, “I think it’s a good idea.” 

With a groan, Isaac puts his head in his hands, massaging his temples with his thumbs. “There have to be other options.” 

Stiles chews on the inside of his cheek for a moment. 

“Well-” Kira starts, but Theo cuts her off. “We have to try something new. It’s no use to anyone if Stiles keeps bashing our heads in,” he tells Isaac, and his tone doesn’t betray the irritation he really feels. It’s hard to say why he even tries to keep his emotions hidden, after all, Kira is the only one who isn’t aware of the chemosignals thickening the air. 

Brett gets to his feet. “Tragic, really,” he says, but there’s no heat in his voice, no edge to his words. Without saying anything else, he stands there, and for the first time, Brett looks weirdly lost. Aside from Theo, everyone is looking at him now. Brett opens his mouth, closes it, and frowns. “Can you sit down?” he asks eventually and steps around the dining table. 

Drawing his eyebrows together, Isaac perks up. 

Stiles stares at him with a sinking feeling. “Why?” 

“Because I’m asking you nicely,” Brett replies, again without his usual attitude, and that’s the really disconcerting part. 

“I don’t want to sit down,” Stiles says, raising his hands, “I want you to tell me what the fuck is going on.”

Brett steps forward and grabs his wrists. His grip is tight, but not uncomfortably so, and he pushes Stiles’ hands down with a weary smile. “We’ve just talked about you having terrible anger issues. I would appreciate it if you sat down, took a deep breath, and tried not to get pissed before I've finished talking.” The smile doesn’t look any more enthusiastic as Brett walks him back to the large couch and all but manhandles him onto it. 

Too stunned to do anything, Stiles only blinks at Brett when he steps back. “You’re scaring me,” he says after a moment, glancing in Isaac’s direction as he scrambles off the chair and walks towards them with slightly narrowed eyes. 

Theo follows him almost immediately. “What the fuck is this going on?” 

Twirling a strand of hair around her finger, Kira gets up as well. She doesn’t look all too convinced about whatever is going on, and she’s certainly not the only one. Stiles wishes Lydia would be here. Her presence is always rather calming, but Jackson, Danny and she have decided to take the first shift, driving around Beacon Hills to keep an eye on the potential victims. Stiles doubts it will do any good, but in the end, it’s better than doing nothing at all. 

"I think Satomi wasn't totally honest with either of us."

Stiles widens his eyes. "What do you mean?"

Crossing and uncrossing his arms, Brett looks almost nervous. It's a new picture, and definitely nothing Stiles has ever wanted to witness - especially not in a situation regarding him. "I hadn’t made the connection before Isaac pointed out that I'm-" Brett stops momentarily, gaze darting in Theo’s direction, and it seems as if he chooses his next words carefully "-behaving differently lately." He's talking about what Isaac said yesterday. He's talking about the touches. That's why he's not speaking openly about it. He doesn’t want to cause a shitstorm. 

Stiles appreciates that. “I don’t understand what that has to do with Satomi.” Or anyone, really.

“When Satomi told me that you seemed to have trouble connecting with the ley lines, and she wanted me to help you, I didn’t think anything of it,” Brett says. Frowning, he begins yanking at the string of his hood once before crossing his arms tightly over his chest. His behavior is seriously making Stiles nervous - and Isaac’s confused expression doesn’t help even in the slightest. “It made sense that she would choose someone who already had an established connection to the ley lines. Plus, you’d be more comfortable with me than her. It made sense.” 

“But?” Stiles asks because whatever Brett will tell him next is attached to a big fat  _ but _ \- and he’s not going to like it. 

Brett licks his lips, fixing his gaze on a spot somewhere to Stiles’ left. The feeling of dread becomes only more distinct. This is so not going to end well, not at all, and the longer Brett drags it out, the worse it gets. “But that’s not all that happened.” 

“Can you get to the point?” Theo orders impatiently. 

“I can feel you.”

Stiles blinks. “I’m sorry?”

“I didn’t notice it immediately,” Brett says, gaze darting over his face for a second before he returns his attention to whatever he’s been staring at. “When I focus, I pick up on that humming you were talking about. I can feel you the same way you felt the nemeton before.” He locks eyes with him, arms still firmly crossed in front of his chest. “That’s not how it’s supposed to be.”

_ That's not how it's supposed to be _ . The words echo in Stiles' head, repeating over and over and over again like a broken record. A shiver runs down his spine, and he wraps his arms around himself as if that would change the cold creeping up his spine. "What does that mean?" he asks, although he already has a very good idea  _ what  _ that means. It means that Brett is like him. It means that Brett is closer to the nemeton than anybody else. It means that Satomi knew about this risk and let them do it anyway. 

"It means we've established a link."

Stiles clenches his jaw.

"What kind of link?" Theo asks, stepping closer. 

Isaac runs his hand through his hair. 

Kira watches them, running a finger along her belt absentmindedly. 

"What kind of link?" Theo repeats, and his anger strengthens with every syllable. Like a heartbeat, it steadily fills the room with its sweet scent. But there is something else underneath all that anger, something almost as addictive.  _ Fear.  _ Theo is afraid. Afraid of what that link could mean for Stiles, what it could mean for  _ them _ . 

Brett clenches his jaw. "I am to Stiles what he used to be to the nemeton."

Grinding his teeth, Stiles looks at Theo, who stares back at him with an expression that's almost void of emotions.  _ Almost _ . Stiles notices the way he works his jaw, notices how his blue eyes darken slightly. "Of course," Theo says, sounding as if he just figured everything out. 

Stiles runs his fingers through his hair.

"And we're just supposed to believe Satomi lied to you?" Theo asks, adding fuel to the fire with much enthusiasm. That's what he's been waiting for, hasn't he? A moment for Brett to fuck up. A crack on the fickle friendship he can use to tear them apart. 

Biting his bottom lip, Stiles looks at Brett.

"She didn’t lie. She just omitted part of the truth.”

“Which is a form of lying.” 

Brett curls his hands into tight fists and studies Theo with a thin mouth. A moment later, he shakes his head, taking a deep breath. “I don't even want to become an alpha," he says, and he sounds genuine, but a lot of people can seem honest while lying their ass off. "She knows I wouldn't have done this, so she simply never mentioned this side effect." Brett clenches his jaw again, eyes narrowing slightly. His anger is palpable, yet it's hard to tell why Brett is angry. Because Satomi kept the truth from him? Or because Theo eggs him on?

Stiles doesn't know him well enough to come to a conclusion, so he doesn't even try. "Why'd she do it?"

"You believe him?" Theo stares at him, eyes darkening. 

It's getting hard to breathe, hard to block all this anger out. But he has to. He knows he has to. If he lets it in, someone gets hurt, and maybe this time, they're not getting up again. Stiles can't risk that. Running his fingers through his hair, he stands up. "Does she want to control me?"

"No, she’s not like that,” Brett insists, but his voice doesn’t sound quite as insistent as it did in the beginning. “She wants to protect you."

"How's that going to protect me?" Stiles asks in a carefully controlled manner. He doesn’t even know why he tries to keep his anger in check. After all, he has every reason to be pissed off. Again, his trust was fucked over. Again, someone told him only half of the story while plotting in the background. "How can you trust her if she doesn’t tell you the whole story?" 

Brett presses his lips into a thin line, for a long moment, his body goes rigid, nails digging into the palm of his hand. Then he sinks onto the sofa next to him, looking as if his anger was everything keeping him upright. But it's gone now. Vanished. Only Theo's anger remains, drenching the air in a kind of sweetness Stiles craves and recoils from. 

He licks his lips and lowers his head. "Brett-"

"I told her I needed space," Brett says, rubbing his hands on his thighs, "she said she's sorry, and that she understands her actions were rash and-" he breaks off, shrugging. "She doesn't usually do stuff like that. The Deadpool must've really messed her up." Brett runs a hand over his face with a sigh.

Stiles draws his eyebrows together, unable to ignore the pinch of irritation. "That's not an excuse."

"I'm not excusing her behavior," Brett replies immediately. His voice is calm, despite his rising anger, betraying nothing of what's going on inside of him. For some reason, that makes him so much more dangerous. "I'm trying to explain to myself why she would do something like that." His knuckles turn white, and part of Stiles wants to place a hand on his the way he does with Lydia to calm her down. He doesn't. "She's not just my alpha. She's been like a mother to me. I think I have the right to find a fucking explanation for her going behind my back without people being on my dick to try and tell me I'm making fucking excuses." He all but jumps to his feet.

"Mate-"

"Don't," Brett warns, crossing the room.

Stiles looks at Isaac then at Theo before getting to his feet. Kira offers him a smile, but Stiles doesn't have the energy to reciprocate it. He follows Brett back to the dining table, curling his fingers around the back of a chair. "I didn't mean to-"

"It's fine," Brett says quietly, his back still turned to him. "I get it. You're angry, and you have every right to be." He shrugs and turns around, crossing his arms over his chest. "It just doesn't make sense." With a quiet scoff, he shakes his head. 

"Yeah… I get it," Stiles tells him, staring at the table. After a moment of silence, Stiles opens his mouth, closes it again, and grinds his teeth. He hates this. He hates that someone has been bound to him without their permission. It's not the fact that it's Brett. He'll take Brett over a stranger, but that doesn't mean he likes it, and not just because he feels strangely violated. His life went to shit after he connected to the nemeton. 

Stiles pinches the bridge of his nose. There have been no warnings. They only told him to keep quiet about it.  _ Nothing  _ indicated that he's in some kind of danger. Still, Satomi chose not to tell either of them. Why not? What is she so worried about? If anything, Stiles is bound to Isaac. Is that what's worrying her? That Isaac might eventually turn his back on her and leave the pack? Stiles didn't think she was someone who cares about power and territory, but what does he really know about her?

"I can hear the wheels churning in your head."

Stiles lets out a long breath. "What's gonna happen now?" he asks, studying Brett's face. There is little to no doubt in his mind that Brett is honest with him. He told him about Deaton, told him what happened to him without telling Satomi the whole truth first. 

Brett taps his arm. "We're gonna train you, the chimeras, and we’re going to get rid of the Dread Doctors. Then we'll see how I can get rid of you." He chuckles and reaches out a hand to squeeze Stiles' neck. His grip softens just for a moment, then he pulls his hand away and crosses his arms again. 

"You're missing a step," Theo says, walking over to them with a smirk on his lips that screams trouble.

Stiles can guess what this is about.

Brett, however, quirks a brow. "You need me to teach you how to tie your shoes?"

Although his jaw tightens dangerously, Theo doesn't reply. Instead, he's turning towards Stiles, raising a brow. "Are you gonna tell them, or shall I?"

"Tell us what?"

Stiles doesn't want to talk about it at all because he cannot judge how they might react. He is going to tell them, of fucking course, but he's just not a fan. "Well," he starts, staring at his feet, "when I spoke to Peter, I promised to get him out."

"Fucking hell," Brett breathes, tipping his head back, and stares at the ceiling. That's not quite the reaction Stiles expected. Of course, he's against it, that much he knew, but he thought Brett would be a bit more vocal about how much he hates the idea.

Before he can say anything, Isaac whoops. "I told you, pal!" He's walking over to them, beckoning for something. "Give me those fifty bucks." 

"What?" Stiles stares at them.

Theo narrows his eyes. It's not hard to tell why. He most likely expected that this revelation would be explosive enough to put a wedge between Stiles and Brett. After everything that happened yesterday, Stiles can't believe he is still so fucking worried about something happening between them. He quasi told him that he's feeling the same, that he just needs a bit more time to figure stuff out. Now that he knows that everything he feels comes from himself and not the nogitsune side of him, Stiles just needs to decide if he is willing to take the risk.

Behavior like this doesn't work in Theo's favor. Not even a little bit.

Covering her mouth, Kira tries her hardest to hide her own amusement. 

"Come on, give it to me," Isaac demands with a shit-eating grin. "I told ya Stiles will have stupid ideas down there."

Brett sighs and slaps Isaac’s hand away, but he budges regardless of his mood. "Fuck's sake," he mutters, fishing a fifty-dollar note out of his wallet. "How are you planning to get Peter out of there?" Brett asks and flicks the money in Isaac's face. 

Stiles rubs his hands together. "I'm not sure yet," he replies with a frown. "I only know that I need Theo and his pack… and you guys, in case Peter thinks about backstabbing me."

"I reckon we start training then."

The chimeras are a lot more belligerent when it comes to Brett and Isaac than Stiles. It doesn’t seem very unlikely that Theo is somehow involved in that - although Hayden targeting Brett might also come from his not so peaceful relationship with Liam. They lose spectacularly without Theo even though they try a lot harder. In the beginning, Isaac and Brett seemed a bit confused about Corey’s ability to become visible and invisible within the blink of an eye, but they quickly got a hold of that. They also know how to keep Josh at arm’s length. After all, electricity is a werewolf’s biggest weakness. But Brett doesn’t have any trouble solving that problem. 

Stiles bites his bottom lip. “We have to fix that,” he says, watching Josh as he scrambles after his taser. “He’s gotta use something else.” Unlike Kira, he doesn’t have the ability to produce electricity. He needs to recharge his batteries. Quite literally, and without a power source, he’s losing his advantage over time. 

“The guards all carried stun batons,” Theo reminds him, hands pushed in the pockets of his sweatpants. He’s not yet joined the training, either because he doesn’t want to go against Brett again, or because he wants to see what his chimeras can do without him. Or because he wants to keep an eye on Stiles. His gaze was palpable whenever he trained with Kira, and he would like to pretend that’s the reason he couldn’t win a single sparring match against her. Stiles knows that’s not the case. Kira can try to look innocent with her wooden katana, chewing on the string of her hoodie, but she can kick his ass from here to Sunday if she wants to. 

Kira twists the string tightly around her index finger. “Maybe he should stay with me.”

“What do you mean?” Stiles draws his eyebrows together. 

She shrugs. “Remember what happened the last time I entered Eichen House?” 

“Vividly.” With a sigh, he turns to her. He'd recognize that tone anywhere. Mostly because he uses it himself a lot. “It almost killed you.” 

“I’m not staying out of this.” 

“Kira-”

She rounds on him, hands on her hips, and glares. “ _ Stiles _ ,” she says, looking more like her mother than she has ever done before, “I’m not discussing this with you, okay? And besides, you said the doors are secured with electrical locks.” The slight raise of her eyebrow additionally to her smile makes her appear surprisingly cocky. “And who’d be better for that than a thunder kitsune?” 

With a chuckle, Theo nudges Stiles’ back. “She has a point.” 

“Can we please focus on the ‘it almost killed her’ part?” Theo is always so fond of agreeing with Stiles to get his extra cookie, and now he’s just blatantly ignoring the most important information of this conversation. Whatever security measure Eichen House has, it fucked her up big time. Scott barely got her out in time. 

Theo whistles, and his chimeras stop immediately. Only Hayden has to dodge Isaac because he was mid-swing. “Josh, come here.”

There’s noticeable hesitation in his step. He doesn’t look particularly thrilled to be pulled out of training. Maybe he thinks he’s done something wrong and is about to receive some sort of punishment. It’s not a great thought. It’s especially not one Josh should have. His shoulders slump when he reaches them. “What’s up?” His gaze is locked on his feet. 

“I have a job for you,” Theo says, unfazed by the behavior. 

Stiles purses his lips but decides not to say anything about it. 

Josh looks up with a puzzled expression. “A job?” That’s probably not at all what he was expecting to get out of this conversation, but after a moment, his curiosity gets the best of him. “I’m all ears.”

“When we’re going to Eichen, you will stay with Kira,” Theo explains, nodding in her direction without breaking eye contact. “You will not let her out of your sight. You will protect her. You will do everything you can in case her kitsune acts up because of Eichen’s security system.” His voice is firm, but not aggressive. It’s almost a little surprising how much he can sound like a reasonable leader if he wants to. “If anything happens to her, you’re going to regret it.”  _ Or not _ . 

Fidgeting with the hem of his t-shirt, Josh nods slowly. “Okay.” 

“Okay,” Theo echoes, narrowing his eyes slightly. “Train with her. Learn your limits. You need to know exactly how much electricity you can take before it’s too much. I won’t put up with mistakes.” 

Josh nods frantically.

Kira tries to stifle her laugh behind her fist. 

Shaking his head, Stiles pats Theo’s shoulder. “Good job, buddy.” 

“ _ What _ ?” 

“Nothing.” Stiles turns to Kira, who smiles at him. He’s accepted that there’s no way she would back down from her statement, just as Stiles knows that he won’t be able to talk Lydia out of coming with him. They're both stubborn in their own respective ways. Well, they all are as stubborn as hell. Which is their downfall as much as it keeps them going. 

Kira nods in the direction of the pool chairs. "Come on, let's get to work."

Josh grins in an adorable kind of way, then follows her suddenly, much more excited about his new task. It's a risk to keep Josh out of the fight. More chimeras mean more strength, and electricity is a powerful tool, but Stiles gets it. They'll get through there somehow, and Stiles would rather have him help Kira than put her in any kind of danger that could be avoided. 

"Come on," Theo says, placing a hand on the small of Stiles' back. "Your turn."

"My turn?"

"You need to train with us," Theo tells him, pushing Stiles towards Hayden and the others. "If worse comes to worst, we should get used to each other’s fighting styles.” Good point. Really good point actually, but he doesn’t particularly enjoy it. Because with the start of his training comes something else. The pain thing. Stiles wants to try it - he’s desperate to, in fact - but he’s terrified of the possible outcome. 

Stiles swallows and picks up the bo staff on their way. 

"Oh, look who's finally joining the party," Brett drawls, studying Theo with a smirk. "Finally man enough to fight me again?" To be perfectly honest, Stiles wondered that as well. He thought Theo would seize this opportunity to repay Brett for taking him down that one time, yet he hung out at the sideline with Stiles. He wasn't even talking much to him, just lingered close by. Never too close, and never too far away. 

But Stiles didn't say anything to unnecessarily provoke Theo, and he rather Brett didn't either.

Isaac, however, makes a dismissive gesture. "Don't be like that," he says with a smirk. "A bit of banter never hurt anybody." He shifts his feet a little and raises his hands, claws at the ready. 

It feels weird to be on the other side of Brett and Isaac, to get into position between Theo and Hayden. But only for a moment. Their claws come free with a snick. Corey moves into position as well, ready to dart between them to use every chance he can get. Stiles prepares himself for the weird cold feeling that usually entails. He glances at Theo, who grins at him, eyes flashing yellow for a second. 

Stiles adjusts his grip on the bo staff, returning his attention back to Isaac and Brett. They’re attentive, yet very different in their approach. While Isaac is grinning with excitement, Brett takes a more casual approach. It’s very obvious that his mood just skyrocketed by now having permission to kick Theo’s ass. Stiles shifts his feet, focusing on him. He’s not going to let him. Simple as that. The moment Brett goes after Theo, Stiles will go after him. 

To his surprise, Hayden moves first. A second later, Corey disappears. Then Theo. It's hectic for a second, and Stiles realizes yet again that he's not really made for being in the middle of a fight. Starting one? That's not a problem. He's even good at finishing one. But being stuck in the middle really doesn't work for him. There's too much going on at once. He's wondering if he should wait and see where Theo reappears when Isaac appears in front of him.

Stiles has all but a second to react. When Isaac’s hand collides with the bo staff, Stiles can feel it in his bones. He's either stronger than Theo, or Theo held back yesterday. Stiles wouldn't be surprised about either. Then again, Theo won against Isaac. It's hard to tell where the lines are drawn between a bitten werewolf and a chimera. 

Brett is stronger. That much is clear. He’s not afraid to prove it either. 

Corey’s yelp distracts Isaac and Stiles. They crane their necks to see what’s going on, only to find the chimera sitting on his butt, rubbing the back of his head. A bit of blood runs down his throat. That means he’s out. Brett set this rule, and Stiles agreed to it. Once you’re on your back, you might as well be done for. In most cases, it’s impossible to be quick enough to prevent a potentially lethal attack. Stiles remembers Derek used to draw the same conclusion. A sparring match always ended when one of them was on their back with a little cut on their throats, just enough to let everyone see that they would be dead in an actual fight. 

Theo collides hard with Brett when he’s distracted with Hayden for a moment. One of them growls, and Stiles has a distinct feeling that this is not going to end well. Neither does Isaac, it seems. He pulls away from him when Brett brings his elbow down on Theo’s exposed back. Stiles hears his pained grunt and winces himself when a knee to Theo’s gut follows. It’s almost too easy for Brett to get a hold of the back of his shirt and all but hurl him away. Theo stumbles backward, fighting for balance. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Stiles spots Isaac dashing towards Theo. 

_ Shit _ . 

Stiles lurches forward, but Isaac anticipated that as well, and easily dodges him. Elbow first, he crashes into Theo, who hits the ground with an aggravated growl and can’t bring his arms up fast enough. His look is scathing, and when he locks eyes with Isaac, Stiles is sure Theo is about to leap to his feet and punch him. Instead, he curls his hands into fists and joins Corey on the sideline. 

His gaze cuts to Stiles, and he’s staring at him for a moment, jaw a tight line. Something is going to happen today, and Stiles is pretty sure he’s not going to like it.

Hayden jogs to his side, wrapping her hair into a tight bun. “He fights like a dick,” she tells him and juts her chin in Brett’s direction. 

Stiles snorts out a laugh. “He is a dick. I don’t know what you expected.” 

With a grin, Brett flips him the bird, and Isaac snickers. Seeing them next to each other, it’s really not a surprise they get along so well. They’re both tall, slightly menacing shitheads, who love to rile others up, yet are fiercely protective of whoever they care about. Perhaps that’s one of the reasons why Stiles easily fell into a friendship with Brett. After all, he isn’t that much different. Well, he’s not exactly tall and menacing, but Stiles can relate to the other things. 

“So,” Stiles says, tapping his finger against his bo staff, “how are we going to deal with them?”

Hayden lets her hair tie snap into place and rolls her sleeves up. “I like the sound of fighting dirty.”

“Wonderful,” Stiles says, focusing on the air around them. Wind is easy, and easy is good because he needs to be quicker about his magic. If he gets the hang of this, he can work his way up to the more complicated stuff. Step by step. Simple as that. 

Brett cracks his knuckles. “Cute.”

“I’ll show you cute.” Stiles tightens his grip around the bo staff. The wind strengthens, but at the same time, he notices the sun more. It’s almost as if someone turned up the brightness. Well, let’s see how much he can do while not hanging out in the shadows. He needs to figure everything out, might as well do it in the safety of his friends.

Isaac grins and dashes towards them. Hayden doesn’t waste a second, colliding with him halfway. Neither goes down. Yet.

Stiles licks his lips, glances as Brett and back at Isaac trying to catch Hayden off guard. Valerie definitely showed her little sister how to fight against people taller and stronger than her.  _ Good _ . He glances at Brett again, knowing he’s just waiting for Stiles to make a move. The problem is, Stiles doesn’t know what to do. Brett is stronger than him. He’s fast enough to cut him off if he runs to the shadows. If he keeps Brett at a distance, however, he might have a shot. 

“Come on, Stiles,” Brett calls, standing there with his hands pushed in the pockets of his zip hoodie, “make a decision before you’re the last person standing.”

As if on cue, Hayden hits the ground with a thud. Luckily, she rolls onto her stomach and gets back on her feet before Isaac has the chance to nick her throat. Her cheeks are flushed, and she rubs her shoulder with a frown. It doesn’t take her long. She’s back fighting Isaac within a few seconds. 

Brett lets out a sigh. “You don’t have that much time in Eichen, you know?” 

“I’m more of a strategist.”

“Or maybe you’re scared of me.”

Stiles narrows his eyes. He’s not going to fall for that taunt. He’s so not going to fall for that taunt. He’s not going to- Isaac yelps, and Stiles whips his head around, watching as he stumbles backward. A second later, he regrets that decision. Within a heartbeat, Brett is right there. He aims a punch at his head, but Stiles manages to duck in the last second. Using his momentum, Stiles twists around and slams the end of his bo staff into Brett's gut. 

Not his best idea. 

“Fucking-” Brett cuts himself off “- give me that oversized toothpick.” 

Stiles tightens his grip. “No.”

“ _ Yes _ ,” Brett hisses and yanks it out of his hands without further ado. The force sends Stiles tumbling backward. He tries to regain his balance, tries his hardest not to fall. But no amount of flailing his arms saves his ass from hitting the ground rather uncomfortably. His bo staff clatters away, and Brett lunges at him. In a last-ditch attempt to keep himself in the game, Stiles uses his magic to stop him. But what made the chimeras bounce backward, only slows Brett down. Surprise crosses over both of their faces.  _ Shit _ ,  _ shit, shit, come on _ , Stiles begs, although he’s not quite sure who he’s pleading with. It’s not like there’s someone who can help him. It’s his magic, and he’s not exactly in any type of danger. Well, his pride is. Kind of. 

And Brett’s ego can really use a dent. 

Setting his jaw, Stiles reaches for the dagger he’s keeping hidden under his sleeve. Brett can be as strong as he wants to be, Stiles is faster. Without much preamble, he reaches up and nicks Brett's throat with the tip of the dagger. 

Brett allows himself only a moment of surprise.

"Ha!" Hayden yelps, fist-bumping the air in triumph. 

Next to her legs, Isaac sits and wipes a drop of blood away from his throat with a scowl. "Beaten by  _ chimeras _ ," he mutters, shaking his head. "Bloody hell."

With a smirk, Brett leans closer. A lot closer. Not close enough to kiss him. Not close enough to be in his face. It’s still too close for the company they keep, for the situation they are stuck in. 

Swallowing, Stiles twists the dagger in his hand and presses the flag side against Brett's throat. He doesn't know what to do. Sure, he could push him off. It probably would be the right thing to do, but it’s not like Brett is doing anything, right? Wrong. Probably very wrong if Stiles has to wonder if what's happening is too much. 

"You lost, now back off," Stiles tells him, voice surprisingly steady in comparison to the heart hammering in his chest. Setting his jaw, Stiles keeps his gaze locked on Brett. He is not going to look at Theo. He is  _ not.  _ This has nothing to do with Theo. Nothing at all. 

With a chuckle, Brett grabs Stiles' wrist and forces the dagger away from his throat. "Trust me," he says in a low voice, leaning even closer, and presses his mouth against Stiles' ear, "you'll thank me later." He lets go of his wrist and swiftly stands up, offering Stiles his hand still smirking. 

“Why?”

Brett doesn’t reply. He just stands there, smirking, hand outstretched, and tilts his head to the right. Stiles can’t tell why this movement seems so weird to him. Drawing his eyebrows together, he turns his head to check and immediately understands why Brett is acting like that. Tracy appeared on the patio, both hands wrapped around a steaming mug of what’s probably coffee. The smile makes Stiles want to punch something. She doesn’t even need to stand right next to Theo. Her very presence was enough to drive him up the wall. But that’s not even the worst. Neither is her looking great despite clearly just rolling out of bed. The worst part about this is that she’s wearing an all too familiar black t-shirt. Stiles has seen it often enough on Theo to recognize it immediately. 

And she knows that he knows. 

Grinding his teeth, Stiles grabs Brett’s arm. “I want to try the pain thing.” 

“You sure?” 

Theo walks over to them. His anger reaches them first. Stiles takes a steadying breath. “ _ Yes _ ,” he says, tossing the dagger down. It buries into the grass, and although he hasn’t thrown it anywhere near him, Theo comes to a stop. 

Brett studies Stiles' face in silence for a moment. “Okay,” he says, glancing at Isaac. His face doesn’t betray what might be going on inside his head. As per usual, Brett remains a perfect picture of confidence. It’s admirable, really. Stiles wishes he’d have that amount of control over his face and body and feelings. He doesn’t. Not at all. He’s a disaster of emotions and conflicting feelings. The only thing he has under control is his loyalty. Once he starts to care, there’s no turning back. Still, now he wonders why he kept Brett always far away enough, so they don’t cross any lines. Because Theo clearly doesn’t bother to do the same. After Stiles refused to give him what he wanted, Theo probably went straight to Tracy. 

So, why should he care?

“Kira,” Isaac calls, getting to his feet, "come on, we need-"

"No," Stiles interrupts him. "I wanna fight Brett. Hand to hand."

Brett raises a brow. "I don't want to be that type of werewolf, but there's a reason kitsunes are good with-"

Stiles punches him, knuckles connecting with his jaw. So, fast he's almost as surprised as Brett when his head whips to the side. It's not as painful as he thought it would be, but a lot more satisfying than it should. He shakes out his hand. 

His eyes flash yellow, yet Brett smirks, massaging his jaw. " _ Fine _ ," he drawls, "you wanna do it the hard way, I'm not complaining." 

“Stiles-” Theo’s voice is quiet and pleading as if he knows precisely where this change in mood comes from, as if he knows exactly what Stiles is thinking. Perhaps that’s the truth. Perhaps, Stiles should give him a chance, allow his voice to calm him down. He can’t, or maybe he doesn’t want to. Tracy might as well have kept the shirt, or she stole it from his room just to mess with Stiles. Everything is possible, and he wants to believe that’s the reason she's standing there wearing Theo's clothes. 

But part of him is just so hurt. It’s not just because of Theo, more happened that caused his mistrust to spike. Still, everything seems to culminate with Theo and Stiles’ feelings for him and his uncertainty about them. He knows what he feels. That doesn’t mean he isn’t afraid of his feelings. Theo could be everything he wants, or he will be the last straw. If Stiles allows himself to trust Theo, if he allows himself to get close, to  _ let _ Theo close, and he ends up hurt, Stiles knows he’s not going to let anybody else in ever again. Even he can only take so much. 

“Hey,” Brett says, snapping his fingers in front of Stiles’ face, “let’s go, or did you change your mind?” 

Without hesitation, Stiles aims a punch at him. Brett expects it this time. He blocks it with ease, smirks as he does. Lazily. As if this is going to be a matter of seconds until this fight is over. As if this was going to be easy for him. It’s not going to. Sure, Stiles doubts he will come out on top. Brett is stronger than he is. There's no way around this, but that doesn't mean he isn't going to try.

And he’s still faster. 

Stiles pushes Brett's left arm down with his right, expecting that he anticipates him to switch sides. He uses his speed to punch him again. The second his knuckles connect with Brett’s cheekbone, Stiles feels it. A nameless satisfaction. The sensation of having been dehydrated for days and finally drinking a drop of water. But that’s not all. It almost feels as if everything finally moves into place. As if this was the final piece of the puzzle. 

He allowed the nogitsune to hook its claws into him, and it’s not scary at all - because it’s part of him. This is who he is, and that’s okay. 

Finally, things seem to be  _ right _ . 

Brett takes a swing at him. Stiles twists away, pulse racing. He’s fast enough to turn again. Grabbing his wrist with his right hand, Stiles swings at Brett with his left. Being ambidextrous has never been so helpful. His fist connects with his chin. Grunting, Brett’s head whips back. More pain trickles into Stiles’ veins. He does understand now what Kira meant when she mentioned that it’s cathartic. His anger subsides, and he feels strangely calm despite his adrenaline kicking in. 

Stiles tries to use his grip on Brett to get behind him, away from him and out of reach. Because he knows that once he gets a hold of him, this fight is going to end with Stiles on the ground. 

“Okay,  _ shithead _ ,” Brett growls, freeing his arm with ease. "Enough of that." Baring his teeth in something that's neither a smirk nor a snarl, Brett shoves him backward. Stumbling, Stiles ducks underneath his arm and miraculously blocks a kick. That, however, leaves his right side open, and this time, Stiles is too slow. He receives a blow to his ribs that feel as if he’s been hit by a car. Pain explodes in his side. A yelp catches in his throat.  _ Oh god _ . He knew Brett was stronger than the others. He anticipated it. 

_ Fuck _ . 

Brett tries to use his stumble for another attack, but Stiles blocks him, then ducks again. Once he manages to twist away. The pain doesn’t vanish. It’s resilient this time. Just as resilient as Brett. He uses every opening he gets, expecting Stiles’ punches like he expects other people’s moves during lacrosse. When he ducks, Stiles knows he’s fucked up. Brett grabs his thigh and waist, lifting him up. He doesn’t even have the chance to struggle before his back connects with the ground - hard enough to punch the air out of his lungs.

Stiles gasps.

Brett pins him down, his weight heavy on top of him. A smirk curls around his lips. “Nice try.” He's too close. Or maybe he's not. Stiles can't tell what too close would look like. This might be it, but perhaps it's fine. 

Stiles takes a breath. “You can get off now."

“Thanks for the offer,” Brett says, standing up with a smirk, “but I’m not into bystanders.” Winking, he offers Stiles his hand. 

What a dick. 

“Get your fucking mind out of the gutter, Talbot,” Stiles shoots back, glancing at Theo. He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t. Still, he can’t help himself. It’s not as if he’s surprised about the ugly twist of Theo’s mouth, or the tight jaw, or the white knuckles. Pressing his lips together, Stiles raises his arm to grab Brett's hand. Throbbing pain shoots into his side. "Ow,  _ fuck _ ." He lowers his hand and presses it against his chest instead. “I think you broke my ribs, asshole.” 

Brett doesn’t look too apologetic. With a sigh, he crouches down next to him. “You’ve been training a lot in the sun. Your batteries must be drained.” Brett grimaces and tugs on the collar of his shirt once then a second time. “Guess I went a bit too hard,” he admits after a moment. “Especially after Kira put you through the wringer.” 

“Oh, screw you.” Although he's probably right. 

“Want me to take your pain? It’ll speed up the healing.” 

Stiles nods, pointedly avoiding to look in Theo’s direction. But that hardly matters. He can feel his eyes burning a hole through his skull when Brett places his hand on the nape of his neck. Stiles curls his own into fists, swallowing around the lump in his throat. 

The sofa wobbles when Brett collapses next to him. “How are the ribs doing?” 

Stiles drops his phone in his lab. “Better, I suppose.” They’re still aching a little, but now it feels more like someone poked him really hard. It took him almost two hours to get this far, and he doubts he’s up for another round any time soon. If he finishes healing, he’ll need more time to regenerate. This  _ sucks _ . He knew about it, but this is the first time he’s confronted with it. 

Brett cracks his knuckles. “Maybe it's a good idea to keep your head down for a little while longer.” 

"Why?" Stiles didn't even hide, he just stayed inside the dark living room, to give his body an easier time to heal. The sun really does a number on him, which is frustrating, now that he feels much more in tune with his whole body.

"Tracy's been trying her best to get back on Theo’s-" Brett pauses, lips still parted. After a moment, he huffs out a breath. "She's trying to get back on his good side." Meaning, she's trying to make him want her. 

Stiles' fingers twitch, and he curls them into tight fists. 

"He's telling her off," Brett adds, reaching out to squeeze Stiles' neck. "She's not taking it too well." He hates how obvious it is, how clearly Brett and Isaac can see through everything, how they  _ know _ , have known since the party. 

The patio door slides open, and Theo steps into the room. Brett pulls his hand away, even though Theo doesn’t look in their direction when he walks towards the kitchen. Doesn't mean he hasn't already suspected something. If he wanted to just get to the kitchen, he could’ve used the other door. This house is large enough to avoid running into each other. Theo said it himself. He  _ meant  _ to interrupt something. Stiles still doesn't quite understand where this jealousy stems from. Theo never seems to be irritated by Isaac, Kira, or even Lydia the way he is with Brett. Is it really just because of Brett’s comments? 

Stiles bites the inside of his cheek. “I’m aware because she punched me in the face for it."

Brett quirks a brow. “Charming.” 

“ _ Uh-huh _ .” Stiles pulls his left leg to his chest. “I just don’t know wha-”

The patio door slides open again. This time, Tracy walks into the room. The tense line of her shoulders speaks volumes. Whatever good mood she had earlier in the day has vanished into thin air. Someone is yelling from the outside. It sounds like Josh, and a second later, Hayden rushes through the door. She smacks into Tracy and grabs her upper arm as she stumbles. “Stop it!” Hayden snarls, whipping her around. “That’s enough.” 

Stiles draws his eyebrows together. 

"You can't tell me what to do," Tracy says through her teeth. She yanks herself free and, turning around again, catches sight of Stiles. She snarls and narrows her eyes. " _ You _ ," Tracy spits, claws coming free with a snick, "you ruined everything."

" _ Tracy _ ," Hayden snaps.

But Tracy doesn't listen. She grabs a bottle of water from the dining table next to her and hurls it at Stiles. With ease, Brett smacks it out of the air, and it bounces on the floor twice before rolling away. He jerks his head around, gets to his feet, and Stiles follows suit, grabbing his arm. “Don’t,” he says, trying to pull him back, “Brett,  _ don’t _ .” 

“I’m not afraid of your guard dog.” 

“You must mistake me for a hellhound.” 

Hayden looks back and forth between them. Her head snaps to Tracy when she takes a step forward; however, she doesn’t have the chance to move. Without warning, Theo grabs Tracy by the neck and slams her against the wall. It’s fast. Controlled. Ruthless. He presses his forearm against her collarbones. “You know the rules.”

“ _ Fuck _ your rules.”

Theo bares his teeth. “You wanna run that by me again?” he asks, grabbing her by the nape of her neck. Without looking back, Theo shoves her in the direction of the hallway. 

Stiles steps forward, but Brett pushes him back. “Let him handle that.”

“What? No.” 

“ _ Stiles _ ,” Brett warns, curling an arm around him pointedly, “not even the nemeton can tell an alpha how to lead their pack.”  _ Now _ , Theo is an alpha?  _ Now _ , Brett takes him seriously after mocking him from the get-go? That’s a weird turn of events. But Stiles is aware that his presence isn't going to make things easier. This is not how their relationship works. 

Especially not after what happened yesterday. 

They haven't talked about it, haven't mentioned it. Theo is waiting for something, Stiles wishes he could give him an answer. 

After his ribs have healed properly, Stiles stays out of the fighting for the most part. The one time he did join them, the tension between Brett and Theo grew distinctively. So, he opted out and sat down next to the pool, watching Josh and Kira practice with their powers - his face lights up every time he manages to cause a small lightning strike - as well as the others. Hayden, Corey, and Theo didn't stand a chance against Brett and Isaac. At this point, it's clear that it has less to do with their lack of strength than their lack of coordination. They  _ know _ that is their biggest problem, but Theo is so focused on getting back at Brett, he disregards being sensible with being aggressive. 

Right now, Theo is the very definition of anger makes you stupid. 

With a sigh, Stiles runs a hand over his face. The sun has moved on enough that the patio is in the shadows. It’s still weird to notice the subtle differences. The sun hardly bothers him unless he taps into his powers. Bright light hardly bothers him until he notices that it does when he sits in the shadows, and his mind quiets, and his muscles relax, and the storm inside him has settled. 

Stiles folds his hands in his lap, watching yet another fallout between Brett and Theo. In the beginning, Isaac involved himself by dragging his friend away, telling him to stop letting himself be antagonized so easily. Now, Isaac sits down next to him, muttering something under his breath before finishing with, "tossers." 

“That bad?”

“ _ Worse _ .” Isaac works his fingers through his curls. “I don’t get why he needs to piss Theo off. It’s fun in the beginning, but Brett just loves crossing the line.”

Theo stumbles backward, catching himself in the last second, and manages to twist out of Brett’s way. He’s gotten better at anticipating, yet he’s still losing. After all, Theo can only dodge for so long. Brett’s not going to tire before him. Eventually, Theo has to do something, and that’s the moment he’ll have a weak spot. Every attack leaves an opening, no matter how good Theo might be at watching, no matter how quickly Theo is able to read his opponent, attacking comes with a risk. It will leave a part of his body vulnerable, and Brett is going to use that. 

“Maybe he’s testing Theo’s limits,” Stiles says, staring at the calm surface of the water. 

Isaac scoffs. “Being a good person and being a dick isn’t mutually exclusive.” 

Theo hits the ground hard. It takes merely a second, and Brett has nicked his throat, officially ending the match. Again. His grin is answered with an audible snarl. The thing is, it will only be a matter of time until Theo loses his temper once and for all. 

Brushing invisible dirt off his sweatpants, Stiles gets to his feet. "Let's end this for today." It's late in the afternoon anyway, and Stiles wanted to bring some dinner for Jordan, who wanted to fix Stiles' bedroom after hai shift. Apparently, he couldn't find a painter on short notice. 

"I'm just getting good!" Josh complains, throwing his hands in the air. 

Kira chuckles. "We'll continue soon."

“Oh, how about tomorrow after school?” Josh sounds really thrilled about this idea, and it’s nice to see him be this excited about something, considering how uninterested he was in the very beginning. His world had revolved around drugs before he was turned into a chimera. Having Corey as a friend already helped him. A functioning pack, as well as being in full control of his powers, surely can’t hurt. “Theo, what do you say?” Josh turns to look at his alpha, and it’s clear that he’s not going to make this decision on his own. Red eyes or not, the chimeras accept Theo as their leader. 

Theo jumps to his feet. His eyes flash amber for a second. “Whatever,” he mutters, not even looking at Stiles when he walks towards the house. 

Hayden and Corey glance at each other.

Something heavy settles in his stomach. Without knowing what to say or do, Stiles steps in his way. “Theo,” he says, reaching out to grab him only to curl his hand into a fist and drop it to his side. 

“What?” Theo asks curtly. His voice softens the tiniest bit. However, he’s still not looking at him. 

Stiles doesn’t want to leave until the air between them is being cleared, but he doesn't know what to do about it. Well, he does. Kind of. He licks his lips and swallows around the lump in his throat. “Thanks,” Stiles says after a moment.

Shaking his head, Theo huffs out a breath and leaves without saying another word. 

They got food at the first diner they found and ate with Jordan in his dad’s office. While Brett and Isaac weren’t particularly bothered by it, Kira looked around almost nervously. It is weird. Stiles remembers how odd he felt eating with his dad in here the first couple of times. He hadn’t been able to eat, too excited and nervous at the same time. Today, his appetite went out the window for a different reason. He barely participated in the conversation and poked his curly fries with his wooden fork until he eventually gave up and stared at his father’s crime board.

Nobody pushed him to talk. 

Brett dropped him off at Jordan’s apartment building. The sun was setting, and Stiles knew he had a sleepless night ahead of him. Today, Donovan probably wasn’t the only one keeping his mind occupied. He doesn’t know what to do about Theo. He  _ really _ doesn’t. Of course, he knows what he wants.  _ Theo _ . The answer is so fucking simple, but the consequences are not. Stiles can’t tell what’s going to happen once he makes that leap. Although Theo always gave him the special treatment, every single one of his friends was expendable, and Theo didn’t make any effort to hide that. 

Allowing Theo in feels as if he’s betraying each and every single one of his friends. Lydia, most of all. 

Reading through the newest update Lydia sent him - no beast, no Dread Doctors - Stiles kicks the door shut behind him. Maybe he should talk to her. Lydia always has all the answers. She’ll know what to do. 

“ _ Fuck _ ,” Stiles whispers, throwing his phone on the counter, and squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, leaning against the door. Wanting someone shouldn’t be so fucking complicated. Then again, he shouldn’t be surprised. It’s not as if he’s ever made any good choices when it comes to his love life. From the start, Stiles has gone for the worst possible option he could find. A girl in a relationship who pretended he didn’t exist. A broken werewolf afraid of love. A coyote who probably doesn’t even understand what love is. 

And now…  _ Theo _ . 

“You have the awareness of a sockpuppet.” 

Stiles yells and spins around, clasping a hand over his mouth. His heart is clearly attempting to flee his body. 

The light next to the sofa flicks on. It’s not dark enough not to see Theo standing near the window, his back turned towards him, face angled just so it's impossible to read his expression in the reflection. The rigid line of his shoulder tells Stiles more than enough. A tremor runs through his body, and Stiles wraps his arms around himself as if that's going to help keep the cold away. 

"So," Theo says, placing the side of his fist against the glass. He’s holding something in his hand Stiles can’t recognize from where he stands, however, it’s more troubling that he seems both ready to punch a hole through the window as well as needing it to stay upright, "this is how it's going to be now?" His fingers rap against the glass, voice level but dark. "I fuck Tracy, you fool around with Brett, and we’re both pretending that's fine just because you are too chicken shit to admit that you want me?" 

Stiles stiffens, then swallows. He reaches behind him and holds onto the doorknob as if that somehow keeps their secret hidden from the rest of the world. This game they’re playing will never change, never end, until Theo gives up or Stiles gives in. 

"Don't pin this on me," he says, meaning for it to come out harsh and angry, but it's barely louder than a breath. The car passing outside would’ve swallowed every word if it weren’t for Theo’s superior hearing. "Don't you  _ dare _ pin this on me."

Shaking his head, Theo hits the window twice. Gentle. Soundless. “It’s not my fault.”

“Fuck you, Theo.”

“Very mature.”

“You won’t even look at me, and I’m the childish one?” 

Theo turns around, spreading his arms as if to say 'what about it', as if Stiles is somehow to blame for everything between them. He's not the one dragging Theo through the woods, claiming him as property and then kissing him, clearly overstepping boundaries.  _ Nothing _ is his fault. From the very beginning, Stiles drew a line in the sand, one Theo continuously crossed, by the way, and yet it's Stiles' fault. It's  _ always _ his fault, isn't it? Scott being bitten? His fault. The nogitsune killing Allison? His fault. Peter going after Lydia? His dad almost losing his job? His fault. His fault.  _ His fault _ . 

Sure, why not shovel even more on top. He isn't already neck-deep in guilt. 

"At least, I'm honest about it," Theo snarls, not that it makes the fact that he's fucking Tracy feel any better. It sucks just as bad.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” It’s the truth. There’s nothing he’s hiding from Theo. He hardly hides his feelings any longer. Not since yesterday. They both know where they’re standing, the only question is how they’re going to meet. 

Huffing out a breath, Theo crosses the room. He curls his fist tightly around whatever he’s holding onto before throwing it at Stiles’ feet. “I found it between the sofa cushions.”

Furrowing his brows, Stiles picks the little bundle of fabric up. It feels soft and expensive under his fingertips. Not that surprising, seeing that it's part of a school uniform. Brett's, to be exact. He probably forgot it here when he helped Stiles connect to the nemeton, and Theo found it, deciding to use it as a weapon.

"How many times?" 

Stiles draws his eyebrows together. "How many times what?" 

Theo juts his chin in the direction of the sofa as if that explains anything. Curling his hands into fists, he opens, then closes his mouth, shakes his head. He looks at the ground, then Stiles takes a step towards him and two back. Only when he turned away again, he asks, "how many times did he fuck you?" He can't even look at him. As if Stiles having sex is somehow an atrocity. 

_ Never _ , Stiles wants to say. "What difference does it make?" he asks instead, crossing his arms firmly over his chest. “You’d blow a fuse no matter if it happened once or twenty times because somehow you are under the impression that I belong to you.” Why does he keep that up? Why does he pretend he and Brett are closer than they really are? It’s stupid. It’s not going to get him anywhere. Theo will only be more pissed.

“You want me.” Three simple words. Straight. Sharp. Piercing through him like a knife. They hurt more than any insult ever could. Which shouldn’t be surprising. Theo knows how to turn everything into a weapon, and he rarely misses his mark. 

Stiles swallows and forces a grin on his lips. “I’m usually interested in things that are bad for me.” It didn’t start with Theo, and it won’t end with him. “So many options, and I’ll choose the worst.” The broken ones. The unattainable ones. Those who leave bruises on his body and walk all over his consent. “It’s called being self-destructive. You’re not that special.” Story of his life. Hide a rotten cupcake with twenty normal ones, and Stiles will naturally gravitate towards it. He’s got a sixth sense for that bullshit. 

“The worst,” Theo echoes because that’s clearly the most important part of the statement. 

“Yes.”

“Wanna know what I think?”

Stiles licks his lips. “Please, spare me."

“I think you’re afraid I might end up being a good decision."

"A good decision isn't always the right decision."

"Fuck  _ right _ ." Theo crosses the room, and Stiles finds himself backing away until he’s pressed against the door. Furrowing his brows, Theo stops in his tracks. His eyes roam over his body, his neck, his mouth, drop to his heart as if he's trying to find the answer written in bright letters. Like that, he’s only a few inches away from stepping right into Stiles’ quite large bubble of safety. Just a bit closer, and Theo will crush it. 

And Stiles doubts it'll survive this time. 

Theo stares at him, eyebrows drawn together. "You're afraid." He tips his head to the side just a little. It makes him seem young and curious. "But not of me." A smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth. His eyes brighten. 

Stiles swallows again, tries to get his tongue to unknot, hopes his brain starts to work again, begs for some divine intervention, or a brilliant retort. Anything, really, just to push Theo off this path. Because it's the right one. Because Stiles is close to making the jump, to make the worst decision of his life, and let wrong be right and fuck whatever consequences might come from it. He handled a nogitsune, he can handle Theo fucking Raeken.

Right?

His safety bubble cracks as Theo takes a single, tiny step closer.

Stiles tries to ignore the shiver running down his spine as best as he could. “I thought we established that I’m not afraid of you.”

Theo laughs so quietly, the sound almost doesn't reach his ears. Then, within the blink of an eye, he's right there. Their faces are so unbelievably close. Stiles swallows. His heart skips a beat as a thousand possible scenarios cross his mind, one needier than the other. His hand, he notices, came up as if to cup Theo’s neck. The tie slips through his fingers and drops to the floor soundlessly. Something indistinguishable flickers over the chimera’s features. He still smirks, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Not really. Instead, his hand travels upwards to curl around Stiles’ throat. “Not even a little bit?” Theo asks, propping his free arm against the door next to his head.

Stiles' mouth is suddenly more than dry. 

“Maybe,” Theo muses after a short silence, “I should teach you a lesson.”

“Because it worked so wonderfully the last time you tried it?” 

Theo moves his hand to Stiles’ jaw, presses his thumb against his lips. Opening his mouth slightly, he traces Stiles’ bottom lip. When he looks up, his eyes burn bright and amber and animalistic. 

A quiet voice in his head has half a mind to protest, to warn him that it’s a really terrible idea. It's too late. Something in Stiles cracks open and releases a hunger that can only be quenched one way. His mouth is on Theo’s in an erratic kiss before he knows it. He hears a quiet growl, but he can’t tell who’s making that noise. He just knows that Theo’s hand finds his waist in a death-grip. His other hand curls into his short strands and he pulls him impossibly closer. 

Stiles cups his neck with both hands, melting against Theo, into the kiss. He’s peculiarly aware of the fact that he shouldn’t want this or Theo or anything regarding this messy and complicated and wrong relationship. Yet all he can do is to open his mouth for Theo’s tongue and part his thighs for the leg pressing against his knee. Heat zaps through his body, pools in his groin, and Stiles finds himself pressing against Theo instead of pulling away. He's trembling with nerves and need, and his sanity waving him goodbye. 

He is the first to shove at Theo's jacket, and Theo follows suit and pushes at his shirt. They bump a bit unceremoniously into each other. Theo knocks his wrist against Stiles' jaw as he tries to pull the shirt over his head without breaking the kiss. Usually, they'd both laugh at their sheer stupidity if they weren't so desperate. Theo pulls away just long enough to yank Stiles' shirt off. Then he crashes their mouths together again, shaking off his jacket. The pieces of clothing land wherever Theo throws them. Stiles doesn't bother, too distracted by the warm hands grabbing his waist. 

There are still too many clothes.

Stiles fumbles with Theo's belt. With a growl, Theo slaps his hands away when he's not fast enough. Then he grabs his thighs and hoists him up without further ado. Stiles lets him, even wraps his legs around Theo's middle. They never stop kissing. Even when Theo carries him into the bedroom, when they hit the mattress, when Theo straddles his hips. They're so close Stiles is sure he can feel Theo's heartbeat, hear the fast pulse underneath his warm skin. 

But then Theo pulls away and sits up. The loss of contact is a rude awakening. Theo grabs his shirt by the back of its collar and tosses it across the room. 

While sucking in a breath, Stiles' sanity returns with a fanfare.

_ What is he doing?  _

Theo leans over him, red lips parted, blue eyes dark with want. Swallowing heavily, he studies Theo as the moonlight hits him, a perfect picture drawn with toned muscles, naked skin, and repressed rage. When Theo bends down to capture his lips in another bruising kiss, Stiles turns his head to the side. Soft lips press against his skin just above his jaw, and the quiet helpless noise forming in the back of Theo’s throat reminds Stiles of a wounded wolf.

The world stops for a few heartbeats, and before he knows it, it resumes like it always does. Standing happens faster than Stiles could have ever expected. He sits up once Theo has climbed out of bed. A pang of want zaps through his body when his unbuttoned jeans do nothing to hide the hard outline of his dick against his underwear. Stiles did this. That’s-  _ fuck _ . 

Theo curls his hands into fists. His muscles tighten underneath his skin. The anger shifts into place. A defense mechanism Stiles is more than used to. Theo always did that. When something was painful, he lashed out because it's easier to be angry than in pain. He believes it makes him look stronger, unapproachable. Stiles doesn't know why he's never seen that before. Maybe because he tried so hard to keep the boy from his childhood separated from this teenager. Maybe he tried to protect the memory of the one that got away. Or maybe he tried to protect himself. 

"I'm sorry," Stiles says quietly, not quite sure what he's apologizing for. "But I can't do-"

Theo's lip twitches. "Is it Scott or Brett?" he asks, turning his head enough that he can watch him out of the corner of his eye. 

"I can't do this," Stiles repeats, his voice so far from firm it's painful, and adds quieter, "not like this."

Turning his head a little further, Theo studies him like an assignment that desperately needs finishing. He's close, almost at the goal, but that last paragraph refuses to come to him. It's easy to see because Stiles regards Theo with the same desperate need to find those last few words for the right conclusion. 

Stiles swallows, mouth uncomfortably dry. "I need to do this slowly," he continues, sweeping his hand over the rumpled blanket absentmindedly, "and I need to do this right." A word Theo hates, yet one Stiles will cling to. If he goes about this the same way he did with Malia, he'll be the one ending up hurt. Again. He can't keep throwing himself headfirst into relationships. Neither friendship nor otherwise. At one point, Stiles will have to accept that he matters too and that his heart is much more fragile than it used to be. There's only so many times it can break before there's nothing left but an organ that keeps the blood pumping through his veins.

Theo licks his lips, turns towards him fully, but doesn't say a word for what feels like hours. The silence becomes loud enough to weigh him down, and Stiles is seconds away from begging the chimera to reply when Theo says, "you don't trust me." It's a simple statement, spoken like the solution to a mathematical problem. It stings like a slap in the face. “And you still think I have some sort of ulterior motive, don’t you?” They had a slightly different version of this conversation not too long ago. Back then, he sounded exasperated, almost affronted at the mere thought of not getting Stiles to step into his meticulously placed net of traps. 

Now, his tone is weirdly flat. 

Stiles bites the inside of his cheek, watching his fingers fidget with the fabric of his sweatpants. For a split second, uneasiness creeps into his bones. “I hope you’re not going to compare me to your sister again.”

“That,” Theo whispers, clenching and unclenching his fists, “doesn’t answer my question.” 

Rubbing the balls of his hands over his cheek with a quiet groan, Stiles shrugs. "I don't know what you wanna hear from me right now." Truth is, he doesn't trust Theo. Not completely. Not with his life, not with that of his friends.

Theo walks back over to him and crouches down in front of the bed. "I can be good." His fingers curl around Stiles' ankle, and he looks at him in a way that makes him want to run his hand through his hair, to curl his fingers into his strands and pull him on top of him again. 

He doesn't. Instead, Stiles folds his hands between his thighs and shakes his head. "No, you can't."

"I can try."

"Theo-"

" _ Stiles _ ." Something in his tone shuts him up, and he stares at him, eyebrows drawn together, and for what feels like forever, neither of them says a word. They are looking at each other, Theo’s bright blue eyes trailing over his face, studying him. Stiles watches him too, unafraid to be caught doing so for the first time. 

Everybody with two working eyes notices that he's undeniably handsome. Stiles allows himself to look past that because looking is what he's good at. His gaze trails from Theo's eyes, which don't always seem as blue as they do right now, to the shadows underneath them telling stories about sleepless nights. He studies the mole on Theo's left cheek, remembers how he poked it because it was in almost the exact same place as his own. His eyes linger on his nose for a moment, which isn't quite as symmetrical as it seems at first glance, and down to his mouth, parted, plump and perfectly kissable.

Stiles lowers his head. 

"Fine," Theo says, reaching for Stiles' hands between his legs, and brushes his thumb over the back of his left one. "We're doing it your way."

Drawing his eyebrows together, Stiles meets his gaze. That's all very unusual. With Theo, it's usually a 'my way or the highway' situation. "What?" He can't help but think this is just another thing Theo says to get to his goal. That he learned about the whole super-alpha thing doesn't fucking help.

"We'll go slow," Theo tells him, drawing invisible circles in the back of his hand. "If that's what you want, we'll do that." 

"You're serious."

"Stiles, I-" Theo breaks off and casts his eyes down. For a terrifyingly long second, he looks small and young and vulnerable. Licking his lips, he sits down on the bed next to him and rubs his hands together. "I hate to say this because I'll sound like a damn cliche, but- I never felt like this before." He glances at him briefly, probably aware of how Stiles suddenly loses the ability to breathe like a normal person. "The thought of you and Brett… it hurt. More than I like to admit."

This confession is not what he expected. It’s not something he would've ever expected from Theo. Simply because it generally wouldn't do anything because of Tracy and his relationship. It's a statement easy to counter and brush aside. It's a statement without a lot of weight. That's what makes this so real. "Nothing ever happened between us," Stiles whispers, squeezing his hands together. 

Theo turns a little, knee bumping against Stiles' thigh. "Never?"

"Not once." Not that he needed to defend himself, but since Theo was this honest, it seems like the right thing to say. "We're just friends." Or something. To be honest, Brett is harder to figure out than the usual jock. Stiles runs a hand over the nape of his neck. "How often did you sleep with Tracy?" The moment the words slip past his lips is the moment he regrets them. This is a terrible idea, and it's certainly not the first conversation they should have after agreeing to… to this, them,  _ something. _

Theo frowns. "Twice," he admits almost reluctantly. "But you know she doesn't mean anything to me." Almost hesitantly, Theo places his hand on Stiles' thigh. "I just-"

"-needed to make sure she doesn't run off like a teenager with a crush who has their heart broken?"

With a scowl, Theo shakes his head. “I needed to stop thinking. She was just there.”

"You're leading her on. You can't keep doing that. Not-" Stiles swallows, the words refusing to come easily- "not when you're serious about this." He frees his hands from their own death grip and gestures between them. 

Theo doesn't miss his chance to catch Stiles' hand. With the smallest of smiles, Theo runs his lips over the knuckles of his left hand. The soft gesture almost makes his heart jump out of his chest. How is he supposed to handle this? Theo shouldn't be soft and sweet. He should be hard lines and sharp edges. He should be ruthless and cold. 

But he's not.

At least not right now.

"What do you want me to do?"

"That's your job, Theo, I'm not their alpha." 

Theo swallows and stares at their hands, eyebrows drawn together. "Give me a hint."

"Well, you don't fuck her." Stiles can't keep the edge out of his voice, can't keep the jealousy sneaking back in. If he had the right, he would tell Theo to stop seeing her. But he's not going to do that. "You're her alpha, if she acts up, put her in her place. If she keeps acting up, take away her spot as second in command."

Theo raises a brow. "I don't have a second in command."

Stiles blinks. Part of him isn't really surprised that Theo is more the lonely ruler type of guy, but seeing how often he goes around doing his own thing, he kind of expected him to be a bit more forward-thinking. "And when something happens when you're not around?" 

Running his thumbs over Stiles' knuckles, Theo shrugs again. 

"You have to have a second in command."

Theo looks up, lips curled into the tiniest of smirks. "You could be my-"

"Oh, no. No, no." Stiles pulls his hand away and crosses them over his chest protectively as if that somehow covers up the excited jump his heart made at the suggestion. "I can't. You know, I can't." Scooting towards the headboard, Stiles pulls his legs to his chest. "I'm supposed to maintain the balance. It's going to be hard enough as it is without being the member of a pack." He has no idea how in the world he's supposed to make any decisions without favoring anyone. It's gonna be impossible. 

Theo wraps his fingers around his ankle, thumb brushing over his skin. Stiles shudders and wraps his arms around himself, knowing this particular cold won't leave without Theo near him. "Help me."

Stiles watches him. "With what?"

His fingers twitch, but Theo doesn't look up. "I want to be good for you." The words are a knife, sharp and vicious, cutting into his skin until they reach muscle and bone. If Theo is aware of that, he ignores it. "I want to be the person you turn to for protection. I want to-"

"That's going to take time."

Lips set into a grim line, Theo nods. 

"You hurt me," Stiles whispers, curling his arms tighter around him. "More than I like to admit." He hates the conversation, hates the way it makes him feel, hates how much he knows it will hurt until it eventually, hopefully, gets better, easier. It’s a necessary conversation, an inevitable confession. Theo needs to know exactly how he feels. He needs to know what he thinks. "It's not going to suddenly vanish into thin air, but-" he stops, swallows, and Theo looks up, eyes wide with hope. Stiles shakes his head, unable to figure out how to finish this sentence. "Can I ask you something?"

Theo shrugs and scoots towards the headboard as well. "Shoot."

"Why did you call Lydia? After the party, I mean," Stiles wonders, dragging his teeth over his bottom lip. "It's not like friendships are an important part of your life."

Theo licks his lips and nods. "They're not," he agrees, bringing a hand to Stiles' face and cups his cheek. "But Lydia is important to you, and you're important to her." There's a pause, and Stiles' heart jumps into his throat, scared and thrilled about what else Theo will add. "And-" he starts and stops immediately, licks his lips. An almost shy smile slips onto his lips. "You're important to me, Stiles. You have no idea how-"

Stiles reaches out a hand and smiles when Theo stops talking, looking at him like he isn't quite sure what to do now or next or ever. "Thank you," he says, brushing his thumb over his cheek. 

Theo's eyes flutter shut, and he breathes in deep. "I'd do anything for you."

Smiling, Stiles curls both his hands into the blanket. He watches Theo for a few moments longer, studies the way he looks on his bed, the way he just seems to fit in, even though he shouldn't. 

After a moment or two, Theo opens his eyes. "I guess I should get going."

"No." The word leaves his mouth before he could stop them. He doesn't want Theo to leave, not now, not that they've finally cleared the air between them. "I- I mean, I'm not keeping you here. You just don't have to go."

Theo raises his brows. "What's going on?" It should be embarrassing how easily he can read him, but it’s not. Instead, Stiles feels strangely comforted by being known like that, by being  _ seen _ the way Theo sees him. 

Again, the words come much easier than expected. "I'm scared to close my eyes." Because he knows what’s going to haunt him eventually. No matter how good he feels, his mind is a vicious monster once the darkness creeps in. 

Theo kicks off his shoes and gets comfortable on the bed, patting the space beside him. For the flicker of a second, Stiles hesitates, wondering if this is too fast. He pushes the thought aside a moment later, gets rid of his own shoes and slips underneath the blanket. When Theo curls an arm around him and pulls him close, Stiles can’t help but notice how safe he feels, lying right next to him, how familiar Theo’s body feels even though it shouldn’t. 

“I’ll be here,” Theo tells him and kisses the top of his head. “Try and get some sleep.”


	33. a little love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanna jump in here really quick and thank all of you. You're the sweetest of readers, and I appreciated every single kudo and comment I get. Each and every single one of you make my day. You cannot imagine the huge smile on my face whenever I get an AO3. I can't thank you enough! <3

When Stiles opens his eyes, it takes him a moment to find his bearings. Rain slams against the windows and he can hear thunder grumble in the distance. It’s cold in bed, and he’s alone. Something he’s aware of before he rolls onto his side just to make sure. Swallowing heavily, Stiles tugs the second pillow closer. Nothing seems like someone else was in his bed. No dent in the bed. No warmth. Theo must’ve left a while ago. Maybe shortly after he fell asleep. Although he’s aware he fell asleep in Theo’s arms, part of him needs to reassure himself that he’s really been here. 

He pulls the pillow closer and presses his face into it. The scent of Theo’s cologne still lingers there. Natural. Woody. A hint of summer. Stiles bites his bottom lip, smiling into the pillow. He closes his eyes again, hugging the pillow a little closer to him, trying to catch as much of his scent as possible. When he moves his head, his nose bumps into a piece of paper. Drawing his eyebrows together, Stiles rolls around to switch on the light, then he studies the paper closely. 

Theo’s handwriting is a disaster. It takes him a couple of seconds to try and figure out _what_ he scrawled on the paper he tore out of Stiles’ notebook.

_ >>I left because Jordan came. _

_Wasn’t sure you wanted him to know._

_See you at track? << _

“Fucking hell,” Stiles mumbles, pulling his legs to his chest with a small grin. Sure, he’s grateful, kind of, because it for sure spares him a lot of trouble with Jordan. But he’d rather have Theo by his side. He hasn’t slept this well for quite some time. No nightmares. No Donovan. Stiles presses the note to his forehead for a second, unable to ignore the giddy feeling in his chest. Waking up has never felt this good, and yet he can’t help but wonder what the fuck he’s gotten himself into. He doesn’t doubt his decision. Still, there will be massive changes ahead. 

Changes he’s equally scared and excited about. 

The shower turns on, and Stiles groans quietly. That means he has to get up. Is it really that late already? He checks the clock. It’s definitely that late already. _Fuck_. Track should start in half an hour, but Stiles highly doubts the weather is going to clear anytime soon. It sounds like a nasty thunderstorm outside, and when he turns to look out the window, he doesn’t see a glimmer of the sky. Even the dawn is hiding behind thick clouds. It's dark without the lightning. 

_Great._

His phone vibrates, and Stiles turns to grab it. He won’t lie. A bit of disappointment sneaks in when he finds it’s just a message from Coach, telling them that track is canceled. He’s given up hope. Which is understandable. Well, and the message makes abundantly clear that it’s only track that’s cancelled. Stiles doubts he'll cancel lacrosse practice. Not with the charity game coming Saturday. It would have to rain fire for him to cancel that practice.

Yawning, Stiles scrambles out of bed and leaves the bedroom. The breakfast table is already set. A plate of cold naleśniki sits next to the microwave. Stiles can hear his grandmother’s voice in the back of his mind, telling him how disrespectful he is for heating them up. He does it regardless then grabs a mug. Coffee is desperately needed right now. It really is. Stiles glances at the note again when he pours his coffee, and he doesn’t even try to keep himself from smiling. He pushes the note in the pocket of his pants and pulls out his phone. 

_Guess we gotta postpone that meeting. << _

Before Stiles has even the chance to put his phone down, Theo is already replying. He snorts out a laugh and bites his bottom lip. Seems like someone has been waiting for a text. Stiles puts the coffee pot on the table, then grabs his mug and flops onto a chair, unable to look away from the three little dots moving. 

_ >> I have backup plans _

_Oh, do you? << _

That's not even the least bit surprising. Much like himself, Theo always comes with multiple plans. The only difference between them is that while Stiles cuts his losses, hoping to find yet another plan he can set into motion, Theo eventually throws a temper tantrum. He’s not good with needing to come up with another plan on the fly, not when there’s always the option of kicking down the door. It would probably be quite endearing, if his temper tantrums didn’t end up in violent outbreaks. They should probably work on that over time. 

No. No. _No_. 

He’s not going to work on Theo. Theo isn’t a project. If he wants to change, Stiles will stay by his side. This isn’t going to be like his relationship with Malia. He won’t be Theo’s mentor. He will not be his teacher. Of course, Stiles will tell Theo when he’s screwed up - something Theo will hopefully do as well - but he is not going to take him by the hand and lead him to the promised land of good behavior. 

"What are you thinking about?" Jordan asks, drying his hair with a towel until it stands up in every direction.

Looking up from his phone, Stiles stares at Jordan for a second. "Nothing," he replies after a pause that’s far too long. For some reason, he feels like a deer caught in headlights, and it's not getting any easier when his phone vibrates again.

_ >> That should be a given by now. _

Jordan lowers the towel and studies him. With his hair sticking out in every direction, it's hard to take him seriously. Not that Stiles has much respect for his stern deputy expression anyway. After all, he grew up with one. He’s built up a resistance. That hair, however, doesn’t exactly work in Jordan’s favor. "You always think about something."

Stiles shakes his head and leans back in his chair. “Peter.” The lie comes easier than it should. Although it’s nothing dramatic, Stiles would prefer to tell the truth, but he’s not quite ready to tell him about the newest development with Theo. Not now. Sometimes it still feels like a fever dream. It’s not. Stiles is aware that it’s not. He just doesn’t want to jump into this. Patience is key. 

_ >> Are you mad? _

Where is that coming from? Stiles glances at Jordan, at his phone, and back up again before he replies to Theo.

_Mad? << _

_ >> Because I left. _

At first, he was disappointed but not mad. He didn’t understand why Theo would leave when he told him he’d be there. But in retrospect, the decision made sense. The last thing Stiles wants is for Jordan to go off the rails. Things have calmed down between them. If Jordan finds out this way, it’s not going to be a civil discussion. Jordan will be angry, Stiles will feel cornered, and Theo will try to get involved in one way or another. Overall, it would’ve ended in a disaster, if Theo had stayed. This needs to be addressed carefully. Stiles needs to think this through. 

"So, you really want to go through with it?" Jordan asks, his tone carefully flat, and tosses the towel on an empty chair. Raising a brow, he sits down and grabs the coffee pot.

Stiles blinks. "What?"

_ >> Stiles? _

Oh, right. He still needs to answer. Having both of these conversations at the same time has got to be the worst timing ever. If he isn't careful, Stiles is going to accidentally say something that gives everything away, but he doesn't want to let Theo worry about this either.

_I’m not mad. << _

"The plan," Jordan drags the word, drawing his eyebrows together. "Breaking Peter out of Eichen."

"Mhm."

 _Tell me about the backup plan. << _

_ >> At school. _

Stiles quirks a brow. That sounds slightly ominous. Theo probably has something planned that might need a bit more persuasion. That’s going to be interesting but also somewhat disconcerting. Things are getting better with Jordan, if Theo comes up with a terrible yet great idea, Stiles doesn't want to be the dick in the equation. He purses his lips.

Jordan snaps his fingers in front of Stiles' face. "Can you put the phone down for one second?"

Stiles licks his lips, then glances at his phone one more time. "Yeah, sorry." He locks it and puts it facedown on the table. Jordan's gaze is palpable on his hand. Is this suspicious behaviour? Where does he have his phone usually? Stiles pulls his shoulders up. Not on the table. He never puts his phone on the table when they're eating. _Shit_. He pulls it away and pushes it in the pocket of his pants. 

"What's going on with you?" It's not a question, more like a demand for an answer. Jordan sounds the way he does when he's gathering information during an investigation. 

Stiles taps a finger against the edge of his plate. "I don't know. I'm just on edge, I guess."

"I suppose that's normal since you're trying to break someone out of a supernatural high-security prison."

Biting his bottom lip, Stiles studies Jordan in silence for a moment. His face is impossible to read; even his eyes don't betray a single thing going on inside of his head. Stiles lets out a breath. "How pissed are you?"

Jordan picks up his mug, contemplating the dark coffee inside. Eventually, he sighs. "I'm not pissed," he says, then adds, "just worried."

“We’re going to be careful,” Stiles says, massaging the nape of his neck. There's not much of a plan yet, and as long as that's the case, they're not doing anything. Brett and Isaac have been nervous enough about Stiles entering Eichen House, so they have to be extremely cautious when they're doing it illegally to break Peter out. They need a plan and a backup plan in case anything goes wrong. 

Sighing, Jordan gestures for the sugar. "I'm not ecstatic about this, but if you need me to do something, I'll help." Judging by the amount of sugar he dumps in his coffee, that support comes begrudgingly. After telling him the gist of his plan yesterday, Jordan insisted on helping them out. Sure, there are a lot of ways he could make the whole thing a lot easier, and Stiles thought about it, he really did. He considered continuing the lie that Peter was necessary for a case. They could get him out like that, but Stiles doesn’t want to cause a bunch of highly skilled hunters to confront the police. Enough deputies have been caught in the crossfire. He doesn’t want it to happen again. 

Stiles shakes his head. "I don't want you involved in that." 

Jordan drums his fingers against the table, studying Stiles with a frown. "How do you even plan to get in?" 

"Well," Stiles says, wrapping his hands around his mug, "Corey is going to sneak us into the breaker room. Kira and Josh are going to fry the system, and I'll go get Peter with the chimeras." And Lydia, most likely. He doubts he can convince her to stay out of this. "We'll leave and meet with Isaac and Brett."

The spoon clinks against the side of Jordan’s mug. "There's a lot in-between that can go wrong."

Stiles pulls his shoulders up for a slow shrug, watching as Jordan shakes off the spoon and drops it onto his plate. With a frown, Stiles massages his temple. A headache is the last thing he needs this morning. “We’re in the early stages. If the employees are all trained hunters…” Sometimes, Stiles wonders if he was perhaps too rash making this promise. He shouldn’t have done it. Promises are sacred to him.

“Is Peter worth all that?” Jordan wonders. 

“He’d better be.” Or Stiles is going to put him right back where he found him. 

Theo is already waiting for him at his desk when Stiles enters the classroom. He'd bet his ass the guy has never been this early or excited about being at school. Not that Stiles can blame him. He throws his backpack on his desk, then hops onto Theo's, grinning at him. "Hey."

Theo smirks. "Hey." Although he doesn't immediately get up from his chair, his fingers dance along Stiles' shin. "You came." He's barely touching him, and yet Stiles already craves more. 

"You left," he reminds him, but laughs when Theo’s face falls. "It's all right. I told you, I'm not mad." With a smile, Stiles catches Theo's hand. His heart flutters, seeing how easily their fingers intertwine. “Jordan and I spoke about the plan again, by the way. He was surprisingly composed." Stiles looks from their fingers to Theo's face, squeezing his hand lightly. "Maybe I should tell him about us next.” He quirks a brow.

Smirking, Theo places his hands on the desk next to Stiles’ thighs and pushes to his feet. “Oh, _really_?” he asks, shit-eating grin taped to his mouth as he leans closer, brushing their noses together. “Do I get a space for my things in your dresser as well?” 

Rolling his eyes, Stiles flicks his nose. “Remember how we agreed on going slow?” Telling Jordan will only mean his conscience stops making such a fuss about keeping this a secret, although it’s not necessarily something unusual to do. Nobody goes around telling everybody everything about their dating life. Still, Stiles feels bad about hiding this from Jordan, especially after promising him that he’s not going to keep stuff from him any longer. 

Theo leans even closer. “Well,” he whispers, painting the words against his lips, “I just thought it might be more practical if I had clothes at your place.” He kisses him, and Stiles can feel the curve of his smile against his mouth. It’s so easy to forget they’re in a classroom, an empty one, because their psychology teacher cannot be bothered to lock the door or be on time. He’s known to come five minutes after the second bell, which gives them at least seven more minutes before the first students start coming into the room.

Wrapping his arms around Theo’s shoulders, Stiles breaks the kiss. He never thought that holding Theo close would feel this amazing, and he can’t believe he’s denied himself for so long. Despite everything being so new, Stiles can’t ignore how comfortable this feels, how familiar.

How right.

“It’s really cute that you think Jordan and my dad will allow you to stay overnight.” Although he knows going forward will be a struggle for multiple reasons, Stiles loves that _being_ with Theo is quite simple. He doesn’t have to bend over backward to meet expectations. He doesn’t have to be ashamed for being glad that he survived while Donovan didn’t. He doesn’t have to walk on eggshells, doesn’t have to be afraid to disappoint. With Theo, he can _be_. Although to be fair, this new soft side needs some time to get used to. It doesn’t matter, though. Stiles will take what he can get before inevitably something goes wrong because that’s how it goes. He kisses the corner of Theo’s mouth again and props his hands on the table. “So, what’s that backup plan of yours?” 

Theo purses his lips, looking as if Stiles somehow offended him by merely leaning back a bit. Somehow, this is so not surprising at all. “Lunch date,” Theo tells him a moment later and sits back down.

“Lunch-” Stiles cuts off, staring at Theo in silence. It’s strange to consider this a date, to consider anything they’re doing a date. It’s just so weird. Things are evolving so fast. Everything is constantly changing. Stiles doesn't remember the last time a couple of weeks felt like an eternity. 

“You can’t even say the word date?”

Stiles rubs his eyes. Since the moment he set foot in the school, he felt like a headache was starting to form. The light is almost too bright, and the bell's ringing made him think his eardrums were about to explode. Actually, no. Jordan making his coffee was the first time Stiles felt like this. He didn't know supernatural creatures could get a migraine. 

It sucks.

Stiles sighs. “I just- this is all very new is all I’m saying," he admits quietly, frowning a little. "And I don't want to drop _us_ in the cafeteria. It'll only cause drama." Not necessarily with Lydia and the others, but for sure with Scott, and most likely with Malia. If she reacted badly after seeing pictures of him and Brett, she's not going to enjoy seeing Stiles with Theo.

And he really doesn't have the energy for a fight like that today. 

"That's why we're eating someplace else," Theo tells him, grinning again. Seeing him grin is honestly a relief because, for a moment, Stiles was so sure Theo would be offended. Whenever he’s sure he can predict a reaction, Theo surprises him by doing the exact opposite. 

"We're… what?" Stiles squints at him. Is it just him, or is the light getting brighter? 

Theo leans back in his chair, curling his hand around his calf. This will be something to get used to, Theo holding on to his leg and all. Stiles doesn’t mind if it’s going to be his thing. Not even a little bit. Something is endearing about it. Strangely enough. Malia never did anything like this, and he probably shouldn’t be comparing Theo and her because they’re not the same, not at all. Still, it’s most likely not unusual to compare everything to something else. He’s doing it all the goddamn time because his stupid brain can’t help itself.

“We’ll spend the lunch period someplace else,” Theo says. 

Stiles twists his fingers in his lap. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?” 

“I’m just back on good terms with Jordan. I doubt he’ll be happy if I leave school.”

Theo draws his eyebrows together, tracing the seam of Stiles’ pants with his thumb. “We’re allowed to leave school, and you have a free period after lunch.” 

Stiles licks his lips absentmindedly, watching Theo’s finger brush up and down his leg. Well, not his whole leg. Theo makes sure to keep his hand underneath his knee. An innocent gesture, but Stiles can’t help but notice that part of him wants his hands to wander higher. He clears his throat and forces his gaze away. “You don’t,” he tells him, not hiding that he knows Theo’s schedule just as well as Theo most definitely knows his. They're both too good at stalking, and, to be fair, Stiles printed out Theo’s schedule on the first day of school. He wonders if it’s still somewhere in his desk drawers. That’s where he put it, at least.

Soft laughter bounces off the walls, and Theo looks at him as if he just made some sort of hilarious joke. “I’m skipping AP Biology." He rises to his feet again, grabbing Stiles by his waist to pull him to the edge of the desk. _Oh,_ that’s a much better place for his hands. "Give me one lunch break to make up for sneaking out last night." Still smiling, he kisses him again. So innocent. Lips pressing against lips. Grip tightening only slightly above his waist. 

Stiles grabs the collar of Theo's shirt to keep him close when he breaks the kiss. "You don't have to apologize for that.” If the positions were reversed, he probably would've done the same thing. Jordan finding out like that could've also gone terribly wrong. Talking about it will be an exercise, but at least Jordan then doesn’t have the chance to think Stiles is hiding something from him or was sneaking around behind his back. To be fair, he prefers if Theo isn’t present during that conversation. They both know he’d be the one to say something stupid. 

"Come on," Theo whispers against his lips, fingers twitching at his hips as if he's trying to fight himself from holding on too tight. "Then at least give me a chance to have you to myself," he continues in a voice that makes Stiles’ shudder, only stopping for a second to press their mouths together. "before I'll have to share you with the others for the rest of the day." He kisses him again, hands sliding up his torso to cup his neck. Theo’s thumbs gently push against his jaw, tilting Stiles’ head to the side to deepen the kiss. 

Stiles would lie if he said it doesn’t make him melt a little. He should’ve been prepared for this. He should’ve expected Theo to know exactly what he’s doing with his hands, his lips, his tongue. It’s easy to forget they’re in the middle of the classroom. It’s easy to forget Stiles wants to tackle their relationship slowly. He pulls away again, just far enough to speak, keeping his eyes closed and his fingers curled into the soft fabric of Theo’s shirt. “Don’t think you can convince me this easily all the time.” He tries not to smile, tries really hard to be earnest with this. At this point, Stiles doesn’t trust the statement to be true.

If Theo’s shiteating grin is anything to go by, he doesn’t believe a single word he just said either. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” 

The waitress is a bouncy young girl, probably going to community college - at least judging by the three open textbooks lying next to the cash register. She greets them with a large smile and an explosion of color from her hair to her shoes. “Do you guys know what you want to drink?”

They chose the table farthest away from the windows because the sun just had to decide to break through the clouds when Stiles is on the verge of a fucking migraine. Theo knocks his foot against his, grinning at him from the other side of the table, and wiggles his eyebrows. Stiles stretches his legs a little, pressing his leg against Theo’s. It takes him a second to remember that the waitress asked him a question. He clears his throat, trying not to look like a boy on his first date. “Do you have Frugo?”

The girl grins. “You bet your cute little butt we have.” 

Theo shoots her a look, flipping open the menu with unnecessary force. 

Her bubbly personality withers. “Oh,” she says, tugging at a rainbow-colored curl for a second, “I didn’t mean to- I wasn’t hitting on him or anything. I just-”

“It’s fine,” Stiles interrupts her, trying not to react as Theo pulls his leg away and straightens in his chair. He’s fucking kidding, isn’t he? Pressing his lips in a thin line, Stiles shoots Theo a look, but the other boy has his eyes fixed on the menu, working his jaw. “Don’t mind him.” He has the distinct feeling that this will be an exceptionally exhausting part of their future relationship. No matter how annoying, Stiles hardly blames Theo for being jealous of Brett. Stiles is jealous of Tracy as well. Was. Has been. He doesn’t know how he feels about her now. It’s all too fresh. Too new. Stiles isn’t a hundred percent sure what’s changing now. Malia had never been jealous. She was possessive, yes, but never jealous. Perhaps she didn’t consider that there could be somebody else. Coyote’s mate for life, after all, and it’s no secret that she’s more in touch with her animal than her human side. 

She waves her hand around, bubbly personality returning. “I know I can be a tad too friendly,” she tells him, pulling her pen from behind her ear, “so, which Frugo do you want?” 

“Lemo Blue.”

She clicks her tongue appreciatively. “Best choice.” The grin on her lips is firm when she turns to Theo. “And what can I bring you, Buttercup?” 

“A coke,” Theo says, distinctly not looking at her. Wounded pride. Or stubbornness. Perhaps a little bit of both. It’s hard to tell with him sometimes. Parts of Theo will always be impossible to predict, no matter how much Stiles pretends that’s not the case. 

She jots his order down. "Cool," is everything she adds before whirling around and bouncing away to get their drinks.

Stiles grabs his menu.

"Don't give me that look."

"I didn't give you any look."

"You wanted to," Theo mutters, turning the menu around all but frustrated. It took one glance, and Stiles knows where that feeling is coming from. Theo invited him to a Polish diner serving Polish food exclusively, and now he has gotten to realization that the menu does not come with an English translation. Stiles knew the former owners. In fact, he’d spent half of his early childhood here because they were friends with his grandparents. All four of them thought people needed to work for their food. Nowadays, this diner is hardly known outside the Polish community. Theo must’ve dug deep to find it. The same way he must’ve done to buy pączki. Theo knows him, and he likes to show how well he knows him. 

Stiles props his chin on his hand, smiling. “Are you going to mope for the rest of our lunch date, or will you ask me what’s on the menu?” 

Theo purses his lips, looking adorable pouty for all but a second. Then he sighs and lowers the menu. “I don’t even know how to pronounce half the stuff on here.” Scrunching up his nose, The waves his hand around. “Aside from salatka. That’s-”

“-not how you pronounce the word.” 

Theo blinks and looks up. “What?”

“That’s not an l it’s an ł,” Stiles tells him, unable to hide a grin when Theo grabs the menu again, studying the word very carefully. He even goes so far to turn the menu this way and that, furrowing his brows in the process. It’s weird to see him like that. Not necessarily a bad weird. Perhaps new is a better word. Stiles knows that he’s not watching a different Theo, just a completely different side. No matter what the Dread Doctors put him through, a part of the original Theo remains. 

It means a lot that Stiles is the only person allowed to see it. 

“No,” Theo decided eventually, dropping the menu, “that’s clearly an l.”

“That’s an l with a stroke,” Stiles says, trying his best not to laugh, “and you pronounce it like a w. So it’s sałatka, not salatka.” 

Frowning, Theo runs the knuckle of his thumb along his bottom lip. His blue eyes are intense when he studies his face. The corner of his mouth twitches, almost as if he’s trying to fight a grin from ruining his stern facade. After a long pause, Theo pushes his chair back and sits down on the one next to Stiles. “Teach me.” 

Stiles raises a brow. “That’ll take a bit more time than a lunch date.” 

“Just the pronunciation,” Theo says, pulling the menu between them, “so, I don’t make an idiot out of myself when I order our food.”

“You know, I can-”

“Plus,” Theo interrupts him almost impatiently, placing a hand on Stiles’ thigh with a smirk, “I wanna know every part of you.” Almost gently, he squeezes his leg and cocks his head to the side. It’s always his leg. His ankle seems to be Theo’s favorite part. Stiles wonders if it’s something he does, or if there’s more to it. A lot of people left Theo in the dust. Maybe he’s afraid Stiles will leave him too. It’s so hard to figure out. There are more layers to Theo than Stiles previously anticipated, and the more he is allowed to see, the harder it gets to keep his walls up, to stay a healthy distance away. Especially with how blatantly Theo shows his feelings. Both his anger and his adoration. Stiles may not regularly talk about his Polish roots, but his friends know about it. Yet Theo is the only one who made an effort to show interest without being prompted. 

“Sure,” Stiles says slowly, not too sure how to handle this much attention. Despite himself, he squirms a little, clearing his throat. “I can try. I’m not the best, but … it should be enough for a Polish restaurant.” 

Theo clicks his tongue. “I know you were raised bilingual.” 

Stiles swallows. “Well, and I know you learned to play the piano,” he shoots back, trying to level the playing field at least a little bit. Theo isn’t the only one who remembers everything about their childhood. After all, they used to be friends, very good friends. They used to share all of their secrets, used to spend so much time together. With everything that had happened between now and then, it slipped his mind. The past is so far gone; it seems like another life altogether.

“You want me to play something for you?”

Stiles shrugs, placing his hand on top of Theo’s. “I think I’d like that.” 

A shadow crosses over Theo’s features. It happened before when Satomi mentioned his parents. Theo wants his past to stay dead and buried. “I haven’t played in years,” he says, pulling his hand away.

Stiles’ stomach contorts at the loss of contact, but he pushes the feeling down. “That’s not fair.” 

Theo stares at him. “What?” Even his voice is significantly cooler than before. 

“You can’t want to learn everything about me and then hide parts of yourself,” Stiles tells him, crossing his arms. “If you want to give this a shot, it’s either all or nothing. I don’t care about some half-assed bullshit, all right?” Otherwise, Stiles will end this before it really started. They cannot begin a relationship like other people. Too much has happened between them, between Theo and Stiles’ friends. Too much has happened period. They need to be more than honest with each other. They need to be transparent. “No secrets. No lies.” Stiles sets his jaw. 

Theo bites his bottom lip, staring at him for what feels like an eternity. The silence is agonzing, but eventually, Theo nods. “Okay.” He leans closer. 

Stiles grabs a fistful of his shirt, stopping him. “Promise me.” 

“I promise,” Theo says, scrunching up his face.

“So?”

Theo shifts in his chair. “So?” he echoes, looking at Stiles and then back at the menu. Promise or not, he doesn’t seem to be willing to share this particular information at all. 

With a sigh, Stiles lets go of Theo’s shirt. “Why aren’t you playing any longer?”

“Because I don’t have to.” The answer comes swift, but Stiles recognizes the tone, notices the weird way Theo’s voice sounds when he ends the sentence like he wanted to add something before swiftly deciding not to. Again, Theo looks at the menu then back at him, scowling now. He knows Stiles noticed. “I had to start playing because I wanted to play Little League with you,” Theo mutters, looking at something over Stiles’ shoulder. “My parents wanted to teach us early in life that nothing comes for free. I wanted something, so I had to pay for it. I had the choice between playing piano and dancing.” He curls his lips around the last word as if he’s tasted something disgusting.

Stiles pokes his cheek. “I danced.”

“My parents were talking about classical dance,” Theo tells him, scrunching up his whole face. “I chose the lesser of two evils.” And he doesn’t want to talk about it because he’s trying to bury his past and parents. Maybe he already did. Stiles feels a bit bad for dragging it back up, but he wants to get to know everything about him. Sometimes that process can be uncomfortable.

Smiling, Stiles brushes his thumb over Theo’s cheek. For a moment, they look at each other. Theo’s features soften, and his eyes drop to his mouth. Another moment passes, and Stiles swallows, wanting to say something. Before he has the chance to do so, Theo presses their mouths together and cups his cheeks. The kiss is urgent, almost desperate in a way. It’s never-wracking to be kissed like that - as if Theo tried to pour everything he cannot say into the way his mouth fits against his, the way his lips move against Stiles’. It’s intoxicating, addictive, and it makes his heart more than flutter. He can’t explain why Theo makes him feel so much more than any other person he ever kissed before. It’s fucking terrifying, but he’s never felt this good. 

A sigh breaks them apart. “Young love.”

Stiles licks his lips. “Sorry.”

“Don’t sweat it.” The waitress places their drinks in front of them. “You ready to order food?”

“Not quite yet.” 

Theo places his hand on Stiles’ thigh again, smiling into his coke. Of course, he’s delighted about this turn of events. Stiles places his hand on top of his and intertwines their fingers, propping his chin on his hand again. “Give us a few more minutes.”

She winks at them. “Have fun.” 

Stiles feels heat creep into his cheeks. Theo laughs. 

_Asshole_. 

It has started to rain again; the slight headache exploded into an almost migraine, and his friends are half an hour away from coming over. He’s quietly freaking out about their reactions regarding the development of Theo and Stiles’ relationship. The last thing he needs is some form of backlash, or Lydia turning away from him, or-

“Is he okay?”

“Leave him be, Josh,” Theo says from where he sits on the kitchen counter to his right. 

Josh appears in his peripheral vision. "I've never seen anybody whisk ingredients that aggressively." Leaning over the second bowl, Josh reaches for a batch of dough.

“Do not,” Stiles warns, slapping his hand away, before continuing to whisk everything together. Someone is staring at him. It's either Hayden or Corey, probably the latter, and it's really not _helping_. However, he also knows it's not because of Theo and Stiles' relationship. They nodded along, and that was that. Only Tracy doesn't know anything yet because she's gone again. It’s the last thing he wants to complain about. He doesn’t need her presence on top of everything. 

“You do know only Liam will make a fuss for like two minutes before calming down, right?” Hayden sighs. “Mason is probably going to be ecstatic because that means he has Brett to himself.” She means well, Stiles is aware of that, but he isn’t really worried about Liam and Mason. In fact, he doesn’t care a lot about what those two think about his relationships. They're friends, of course, but he’s not close enough to them to let their opinions influence anything he does. She also didn't necessarily have to mention Brett. But when Stiles glances at Theo, he's merely grinning at him. That reaction is a bit too tame for his liking.

Eyeing Theo warily for a few moments, Stiles tosses the whisk into the sink. The sound makes him wince. Fucking headache, if this doesn’t get better soon, he’s going to lose it. Stiles rubs his eyes, noticing Josh reaching for the bowl just in time. “Stop it,” he says and slaps his hand away a second time. People need to work on their patience. If there’s something he hates, it’s when people are interfering with his baking progress. Usually, he doesn’t even want somebody inside the kitchen while he’s working, but Stiles is highly aware that trying to shoo any of the chimeras away will be a waste of everybody’s time. 

Grumbling, Josh retreats.

“You know,” Theo says, hopping off the counter, “at this point, I’m pretty sure baking is an outlet for your anger issues.” Ignoring Stiles’ glare, he wraps an arm around his waist and gently pulls him away from the waffle iron. It’s surprising Theo owns one considering that his house is usually only equipped with whatever is necessary to survive. “And we should probably find a better outlet for that.” 

Hayden groans. 

“Theo-”

“Corey knows how to use a waffle iron,” Theo assures him, dragging him away from the counter without further ado. Part of Stiles considers resisting, but he’s not really in the mood to struggle. Also, he’s not about to complain when Theo pulls him close, and his hand slides further down. He grabs his waist, thumb slipping underneath the hem of his shirt. A shudder runs down Stiles’ spine, not just because of the touch, but also because of how gentle he is with him. 

It’s strange to think about. Theo’s hands have caused so much death. He even hurt Stiles in the beginning. He still remembers the ache in his upper arm. But things seem to have changed. Theo’s hands are softer now. It makes his touch so much more intimate, knowing what he did and could do and seeing him choose not to do it.

They both sit down on the sofa, and Stiles collapses into the cushions, throwing his legs over Theo’s thighs. He closes his eyes with a sigh, listening to the rain slam against the windows. When Theo wraps his fingers around his ankle, thumb slipping under the cuff of his pants, Stiles can’t help but smile. It’s such a Theo thing to do if he’s totally honest. Holding on to his leg, preventing him from running away and leaving him behind. 

Or maybe, it’s nothing. Maybe it’s just Theo’s way of showing affection. 

It's silent between them. Not awkwardly so, but it’s still the kind of silence that's heavy with an unasked question. Stiles can feel Theo’s eyes on him while he traces invisible patterns on his ankle. His fingers soft, yet restless against his skin. When Theo stills, Stiles blinks his eyes open, “Are you that stressed about telling Lydia?” Theo asks, eventually, eyebrows drawn together. 

Stiles pushes himself up on his elbows and shakes his head. Well, it’s not just Lydia. Part of him is nervous about her reaction. Maybe it’s stupid. Maybe he doesn’t have to be after everything they've been through. After all, she didn't condemn him for what happened to Donovan. But Theo is … Theo hurt her. Stiles can't expect her to accept him just because they're dating. "A bit," Stiles says eventually, trying to sound casual despite his stomach contorting. "But I'm more bothered by the headache.” Which isn’t wrong. Despite being nervous, he doesn’t actually believe that Lydia will cut ties with him.

Theo’s scowl deepens. 

“What?” Stiles sits up straighter.

“You’ve been sensitive to light since yesterday, and now you have a headache – ” Theo trails off, studying his face in silence for a few seconds. The worry displayed in them is almost suffocating.

Crossing and uncrossing his arms, Stiles pulls his shoulders up. “We’ve been training a lot the past few days, Brett said — ”

“Brett doesn’t know everything,” Theo interrupts him, fingers twitching around his ankle.

Stiles lets out a breath. “Really?” he asks then, ignoring how the loss of contact makes him feel when he shifts into a cross-legged position. He doesn't want to pull away, but he's not going to support this pissing contest. "That's enough," he says in a low voice. "You won - even though Brett didn’t have a chance in the first place."

Theo scoffs. "That's debatable," he says, lowering his gaze to his hand. A shadow crosses over his features, and he draws his eyebrows together, curling his hand into a fist. It’s not the reaction he expected; especially not after hearing that Stiles never had sex with Brett, never even kissed him. How can he still be this insecure about this? There’s nothing else Stiles can do. He can’t make the pictures disappear from social media. Theo had been there anyway. He knows nothing happened between them. 

"We're friends," Stiles says, pushing his annoyance down. This isn’t worth causing a scene in any way, but Theo has to understand that, regardless. If he can't even mention Brett's name without Theo throwing a fit, they’re going to have a problem. It’s not that Stiles would choose Brett over Theo. Still, he can’t let him get away with acting like a brat to get his way. That isn’t how this works."I need his help, whether you like it or not." Curling his fingers into the fabric of his pants, he turns away from Theo. He hates this jealousy because it feels as if Theo doesn't trust him, as if he expects him to mess up, to fall for Brett's good looks and words - that he’ll fuck Brett like he fucked Tracy. 

"I don't know what you want me to do."

"I want you to trust me," Stiles says, running his fingers through his hair. "God, Theo, we didn't even make it 24 hours without you doubting me, are you fucking kidding me?" He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to push down the frustration bubbling up. This isn’t surprising. This is just another example of what their relationship could be like.

Theo purses his lips. “You have a connection.”

“Involuntarily.” 

“It’s still there,” Theo insists. He doesn’t sound angry. He doesn’t sound hurt. It’s hard to pinpoint any emotion in his tone even though it’s plain as day. There’s something there. Something heavy. Something clouding the air, clouding Theo’s mind, and bringing out the worst of his jealousy. 

Stiles sighs and shifts around again until he can nudge Theo’s thigh with his foot. Almost instantly, Theo curls his fingers around his ankle, and Stiles’ chest constricts. He takes a deep breath. “If I wanted to be with anybody else, I wouldn’t be with you right now,” Stiles says, trying to keep his voice steady. “You have to trust me. I want this. I want to give us a shot. I _want_ to be with you.” 

“Until you’re not.” Theo’s voice is sharp, but he keeps looking at his hand. His fingers tighten for the flicker of a second.

“But then I’m not,” Stiles says, leaning forward, “look at me, Theo.” 

Swallowing visibly, Theo turns his head. His eyes are dark, but his face is unreadable. It’s like he’s wearing a mask, one with obvious cracks just above his eyes. Or maybe Theo isn’t even trying. Perhaps he’s okay with Stiles seeing the truth, and that really doesn’t make it any easier at all. 

“No secrets, no lies, remember?” Stiles grabs Theo’s wrist. Almost immediately, Theo’s grip tightens around his ankle, as if he’s afraid Stiles will force him to let go. This, they have to work on. This fear of Stiles abandoning him. He needs Theo to have a little more faith in him than he currently does. “Just because we’re doing this slow doesn’t mean I don’t want you. I don’t wanna be a fool by rushing in is all. Not this time.” Because despite everything, despite whatever Theo did and still could do, Stiles has the feeling that this might be different, better, _good_. “You have to trust me.” Stiles leans closer, tracing the lines of Theo’s face with his fingertips. It hurts to look at him like that. It hurts to see Theo almost completely shut down. All he wants is to peel off this fucking mask and bring back the Theo who grinned at him just a few hours ago. 

Theo catches his thumb with his lips, and the whole world narrows until nothing exists but Theo’s lips on his finger, the palm of his hand. Stiles doesn’t pull away when Theo leans in. Maybe he even leans forward as well. It’s hard to tell. All he can think about is his walls crashing down and the pressure he’s put himself under exploding in his chest when Theo’s lips cover his own, pressing down hard and urgent and desperate. 

Stiles gets it. He knows the feeling, knows that words can’t always convey everything. Without a doubt, Stiles grabs Theo by the back of his shirt, drags him on top of him, and gives him everything he craves. His chest is on his. Theo grabs the short strands of his hair, his other hand cups his cheek. Stiles curls his arms around Theo’s shoulders, feeling his heart break more and more with every single one of those small, deep noises Theo makes in the back of his throat.

“That’s not what I expected to find.” 

Theo pulls back and whips his head around. 

Stiles pushes onto his elbows, swallowing heavily as he sees Lydia standing there - expression unreadable, gaze lowered onto something invisible. Behind her stand Jackson, mildly confused expression on his features, and Danny, who seems to be incapable of hiding the smirk on his lips. Clearing his throat, he pushes Theo off him. 

Without complaint, Theo moves off him. He even tries to be slick about it and completely misjudges the width of his own sofa. His supernatural reflexes can’t save him this time. Cursing audibly, Theo fails to regain his balance and topples off the sofa in the most ungraceful way Stiles has ever seen - which is still a lot more graceful than Stiles could ever fall - and vanishes from sight. 

Jackson snorts out a laugh. “Smooth, Raeken.”

Choking on a laugh, Stiles clasps a hand over his mouth. It's not getting any easier to keep quiet when Theo’s head pops up again, a distinct glare shot in Stiles' direction. 

Mustering all the dignity he has left, Theo rises to his feet and brushes off invisible dust. He clears his throat. “I’ll see what the others are doing,” he informs Stiles, who tries his hardest not to suffocate on his laughter. Before he leaves, however, he presses a quick kiss to the top of his head.

Danny nods his head. “I’m thirsty.”

Jackson doesn’t even try to come up with a reason. “You two are aware that they know we’re leaving them so they can talk, right?” he asks, following Danny and Theo out of the living room.

Lydia flips her hair over her shoulder and walks around the sofa. For a moment, she studies him with pursed lips and narrowed eyes. This really wasn’t how she was supposed to find out. He’d rather have her sit down, and spoon feed her the truth. Ever since Theo arrived, everything was just dumped on them. It would’ve been nice if he had the chance to prepare her for the feelings Stiles caught for the guy who almost ruined their lives. 

Eventually, she smoothes her dress and sits down next to him. “So,” she says, crossing her legs, “someone knows how to bring all the boys to the yard.” With an expectantly raised brow, Lydia turns to look at him. 

Stiles squirms. “Oh god, please don’t.” 

She props her chin on her hand, tapping a perfectly manicured finger against her cheek. “I learn about Brett via social media,” Lydia says, shaking her head in disbelief. “I mean, _you_ and social media. There’s gotta be a joke in there somewhere.” Again, she purses her lips for a moment, but the second Stiles opens his mouth to explain, she continues, “and then I find you canoodling with Theo.” The corner of her mouth twitches and she shifts her hand to hide it.

 _Fucking hell_. Stiles laughs quietly, covering his face with his hands. 

“I’m your _best friend_ ,” Lydia reminds him, poking his upper arm with her finger. “I told you about Aiden! I can’t believe-”

“Okay, there’s nothing to tell about Brett,” Stiles interrupts her, lowering his hands. Although she knows that since he’s told her before, he feels the need to throw that piece of information out there because Theo is most definitely listening in on their conversation. He’s going to hammer that home until he eventually understands that.

Lydia crosses her arms over her thigh. “So, how long?”

“Last night.”

“No.” Lydia shakes her head, brushing a strand of hair over her shoulder. “When did you notice you have feelings for him?” That’s the big question, isn’t it? When did he notice? When did he know? When did it all start? It’s impossible to tell, impossible to figure when his attraction morphed into feelings. Before or after he killed Scott? Before or after Theo kissed him for the first time? 

Stiles licks his lips. “I don’t know. Sometime in the past few weeks, I think.” 

“Oh, _only_ in the past few weeks?" she echoes in disbelief. "And you just-" she waves her hand around "-what? Forgot to mention it?" Quirking a brow again, Lydia flicks his forehead. "I am deeply offended, I hope you are aware of that." She’s not. Stiles can tell she's not because she's, for one, a terrible liar, and for another, can't hide that smirk to save her life.

Part of him still wants to explain why he kept quiet for the most part. “I didn’t say anything because I blamed my feelings on everything I could find,” Stiles tells her, running his knuckle over his bottom lip. “I blamed it on my connection to the nemeton, wondered if part of the nogitsune was the reason why I would… like someone like him.” 

“Or perhaps you just liked two hot guys fighting over you.” Lydia tilts her head to the side, pursing her lips in contemplation. “Unless it’s the werewolves' way of courting. Do you think werewolves court more aggressively than-”

“Lydia, _please_!”

She laughs. “I’m just saying, I wouldn’t have minded-”

“Stop,” Stiles begs, grabbing her hands, and tries his best to ignore the heat creeping up his neck, “please, oh my god, stop. I am begging you.” The last thing he needs is a temper tantrum a la Theodore Raeken now that this conversation turns out to be so much easier than he would’ve ever suspected. Maybe it was stupid of him to be worried about this, but he couldn’t help it. Being worried is kind of his thing. No matter how unnecessary it turns out to be in the end.

“You fell for the bad guy, it happens.”

Stiles lets out a long breath. “You make that sound so easy.”

“Do I have to remind you about that handsome but homicidal lizard I used to date? The one who told me he loved me and then broke my heart by going to London?” Lydia raises her voice enough to make sure Jackson knows she’s aware that he’s listening in as well. If they’re being honest, it’s not like it really mattered that they left the room. It was clear from the very beginning that neither Theo nor Jackson has the decency not to eavesdrop.

“That’s not quite the same.” Stiles lets go of her hands and gently massages his temples with his index and middle fingers. This _fucking_ headache.

“Don’t pretend Jackson was a good person,” Lydia says, crossing her arms over her thighs again, “or that I was a good person. I was horrible, but you loved me anyway.” She curls her lips a little, tugging at her tights. 

Stiles frowns. “That’s still different. You didn’t kill anybody.” He really appreciates that she’s trying her best not to make him feel bad about his feelings, but she doesn’t have to bury the fact that Theo did some fucked up shit in the past - or that he’s still capable of doing more fucked up shit in the future. Stiles could pretend that dating Theo will magically heal him and make him a good person, but they all know the truth. Love doesn’t heal anybody. It can help in the process. Still, that doesn’t make it a magic bullet. 

“Not because of lack of trying.”

Stiles shoots her a look, and Lydia breathes out a sigh. For a moment, she’s silent while she contemplates him with pursed lips. Eventually, however, her features soften, and she scoots closer and grabs his free hand with both of hers. “I just thought that after Donovan you wouldn’t be afraid to talk to me.” 

Stiles squeezes her hand. “I wasn’t afraid.”

She quirks a brow. 

“Well,” Stiles mutters, scratching the side of his nose, “let’s say I was mostly in denial, and I was just afraid that saying it out loud would make it real. I didn’t want it to be real.” 

“Didn’t,” Lydia repeats, smirking a little. It’s a relief, seeing her like that. He doesn’t really know what exactly he was so afraid of. It’s hard to tell if she would’ve cut him off, but he hasn’t anticipated her to accept it. Lydia bites her bottom lip, reaching her hand out to cup his cheek. “Don’t go through something like that without me again. I’m your best friend. We’re supposed to hit rock bottom together, so I can pull you back on your feet.” 

Stiles nods. 

“And since I’m your best friend, you are legally required to tell me how good of a kisser Theo is.”

Groaning, Stiles leans his forehead against her shoulder.

Lydia wraps her arms around him. “You don’t have to answer me now.”

“Oh my _god_ ,” Stiles mutters. “You’re the worst, do you know that?” When Lydia only laughs, he hugs her back, chuckling quietly himself. He can’t deny it. Stiles collects a certain type of friend. They’re all terrible, but he loves them with all his heart. 

“No.” 

Theo rolls his eyes and falls back into his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. Although he’s not saying anything, his expression doesn’t hide the fact that he’s about to lunge over the dining table and throttle Brett if he continues to shut down every single idea they come up with. Granted, some of them are stupider than others, but not every idea can be a master plan from the get-go. 

Jackson reaches for the coffee pot. “We’re going in circles.” 

“We have a plan,” Theo mutters, kicking the leg of the table. It might be an accident, but it’s also entirely possible that he aimed for Brett and missed. Whoever decided that it's a good idea to have Brett sit at the head of the table with Theo sitting right next to him is an idiot. Even Kira, who helped Stiles carry the plates and mugs to the dining table, did not look convinced at all.

Brett tears off a piece of Isaac’s waffle, “It’s a stupid fucking plan, that’s what it is," he announces before shoving the waffle in his mouth, ignoring Isaac's indignant expression. Seems like you have to protect your food when Brett sits in the near vicinity. “Do I have to remind you that they’re all trained hunters?” Shaking his head, Brett crosses his arms.

“You mentioned that,” Stiles mutters, squeezing the bridge of his nose. Brett has mentioned that so many times in the last hour, he doesn’t need to hear it for another year. “And we knew it before.” They haven’t been training for fun, after all. It was more than a pack bonding exercise. 

“And you still came up with a stupid fucking plan like that!”

Isaac rolls his eyes, and Danny glances at Brett, drawing his brows together. Huffing quietly, he stretches his legs, knocking his foot into Stiles’. “Sorry,” he mutters, adjusting his legs before looking at Jackson on his right, who has been scowling at Brett the whole time. The air is charged at the dining table, has been since Isaac and Brett strolled into the house. While Stiles understands that the latter isn’t everybody’s beloved Golden Boy, he can’t believe that Jackson and Theo are so incensed. Granted, for Theo, everything’s a bit new, and he probably will see Brett as a threat for a while longer. But _Jackson_? Stiles couldn’t tell why he was holding this grudge as bad as Theo does. They’re both ridiculous. 

“I didn’t hear anything useful from you, Talbot,” Theo snaps, reaching for Stiles’ hand. 

For a moment, Stiles considers that maybe holding his hand will allow Theo to calm his nerves a little. However, he pulls his hand away and folds his arms over his chest, staring at Theo with raised brows. “I will not be dragged into your pissing contest,” he says in a low voice, looking from Theo to Brett, and narrows his eyes. “You need to grow up, both of you, because sometimes I’m really not sure either of you graduated kindergarten.”

Lydia doesn’t even try to hide her laugh behind a cough. Kira has the decency to cover her mouth, but her eyes sparkle enough to make even that a futile attempt. 

Brett takes a deep breath. “Well, Raeken, how about we don’t let Stiles waltz in through the entrance to get to the fucking basement with everyone on high alert?” Shaking his head, he gets to his feet. 

Of course, Stiles anticipated discussions about the details of their plan. After all, it’s not even finished. He also expected that Brett and Theo wouldn’t magically be the best of friends just because Theo finally got what he wanted. That doesn’t mean he thought the two would be at each other's' throats from the get-go. 

Danny stirs his coffee. “He isn’t wrong. An institution like Eichen will have an emergency plan for blackouts in place.” 

“The doors have electric locks,” Kira reminds him, propping her chin on her hand, “there’s no other way.”

“What if we steal a keycard?” Jackson offers.

Stiles shakes his head. “They switched from keys to keycards after I swiped the keys from Brunski. Trust me, they’ll have an emergency plan for a missing keycard.” He massages the nape of his neck and sinks a little deeper into his chair. He was also sedated and put in isolation afterward. It makes him anxious that bits and pieces of his memory regarding his stay at Eichen are still missing. He can’t help but wonder how much he can blame the nogitsune for it, or Brunski's proclivity to solve problems with sedatives, or the fact that he’d been extremely sleep-deprived at that point. The more he tries to remember, the harder it gets. He can't even say for sure what happened with Malia in the basement. 

“We need to know their emergency plan for a blackout,” Lydia suggests, running a finger along the edge of her empty plate. Round and round and round.

Tilting his head back, Stiles closes his eyes for a second. All this fighting and discussing doesn't help his headache in the slightest.

Danny leans back in his chair. “I could hack into their system, maybe I can figure something out.” 

“Do that,” Brett says, crossing and uncrossing his arms. “We can’t go in there blind, and we need another entry because Stiles isn’t – ”

“What gives you any kind of authority?” Theo cuts him short, raising a brow. 

Isaac opens his mouth, but Brett is faster, slamming both his hands on the table. “Are we talking about werewolf hierarchy, or do you maybe want to make a list of the most reasonable people in the room? Because I’m pretty sure I’m outranking you in both.” 

Stiles places a hand on Theo’s thigh, squeezing in warning. He can feel his tense muscles, and digs his fingers in. Theo shoots him a look, and he isn't the only one. Even though Stiles tried to be inconspicuous about it, Isaac noticed the movement. He raises his brows but doesn't comment. Stiles sighs. "Brett, come on, we’re still in the early stages of planning.” Nothing is set in stone yet, aside from the necessary blackout and that Stiles goes in with Lydia, Theo, Hayden, and Corey. They can’t count on Tracy, and Josh has to stick with Kira. 

“You’re not walking in through the front door.”

“Brett-”

“I think he’s right, mate,” Isaac says, ripping his waffle into tiny pieces without eating it. “That’s too dangerous.”

Stiles narrows his eyes. He’s not going to sit this out. After all, he was the one who made that promise to Peter. It’s his idea. He’s not going to send other people out to do his dirty work while sitting somewhere safe. That’s not going to happen. That’s never going to happen. If one of his plans requires someone to get their hands a little dirty, he will do it himself. “I’m not staying out of this.” 

“Nobody asked you to do that,” Isaac reminds him, dropping the last two pieces of his waffle with a sigh. 

Brett runs a hand through his hair. "Do I have to remind you that a single bullet between those pretty amber eyes is not just going to kill you?" 

Theo's lifeless body lying on the pavement sneaks back in his mind. Stiles' fingers twitch on his thigh. He pulls his hand back, covering his eyes, and sinks even deeper in his chair. Theo’s gaze is palpable on his cheek, and only a moment later, he feels Theo's fingers dance over his thigh, settling just above his knee. The touch makes it a little easier to breathe. Still, it doesn't change the fact that Brett is right. His death will have consequences. He can't be reckless any longer. If he dies now, it's not only going to affect his dad. If he dies now, he'll kill Theo, he'll kill Hayden and Corey, Josh and Tracy. He's going to drag them down with him. 

"You're right," Stiles mumbles, trying to keep his voice as steady as possible, and massages his temple. "We should find another way in." There isn't much space to hide in the stairwell, much less to properly fight or evade a potential attack. No matter how much he dislikes it, he is the weakest and most destructive link.

Brett throws his hands in the air. "Thank you."

A chair scrapes over the expensive flooring. "I need a drink," Theo mutters, leaving the room without another word.

Stiles lowers his hand and watches him disappear in the hallway. Briefly, he glances in the direction of the chimeras who aren't exactly trying hard to be subtle about anything. They sit on the sofa, failing to pretend to play a video game. Now, they're looking at them – well, Stiles specifically – and Hayden quirks her brow almost expectantly. She doesn’t really want him to baby Theo now, right? Because he’s not going to do that, even though part of him really wants to follow and calm him down. 

This is the exact reason why he’s going to be a terrible nemeton. How the fuck is he supposed to make fair decisions on a much larger scale when he can’t even really bring any semblance of balance to his own group of friends? 

Squirming a little, Stiles glances at Brett, who remains unbothered by his reaction, then Lydia, who draws her eyebrows together and tilts her head a bit to the right. Her confusion is written all over her features. Yeah, he didn't beg her to stop talking about Brett earlier because the topic makes him uncomfortable. Mouthing 'later', Stiles turns to look at Brett again. He clears his throat, trying to keep his tone light. “We could try the tunnels, right?” Stiles suggests, massaging his temple with the side of his hand. At this point, he's sure his headache gets worse by the second. “All of Beacon Hills is built on those tunnels. Maybe we can find a way in.” They’re essentially in the basement already. It means that they’ll just have to find a way from wherever they enter to get to Peter’s cell. 

They need to find some sort of layout. Another thing they desperately need Danny for. This mountain of a project would be so much harder without him on their team. If they had a way to get the supernatural portion of this team in, things would be much easier. There has to be a way, right? After all, they manage to transport supernatural creatures _in_ . They need more than just a layout. They need to know _every inch_ of that fucking building.

“You just said it yourself, dumbass,” Jackson intervenes, sounding a lot harsher than the situation requires - severe enough, in fact, that even Lydia shoots him a quizzical look. “All of Beacon Hills is built over those tunnels. That means miles and miles of them. How exactly are you planning to find an entrance?”

Stiles narrows his eyes. "Maps, Jackson. Good old maps, it's not that fucking hard to figure out."

“I know my way around the tunnels,” Corey pipes up, standing next to the couch with his hands clasped in front of him. Josh nudging him forward seems to be the only reason Corey even dared to speak up. “We’ve spent a lot of time down there going through the Dread Doctors’ stuff and … I ran around a lot.” He takes a tiny step forward. Again, it seems to be initiated by Josh, who leans over the backrest, preparing to shove his friend forward. 

Stiles straightens in his chair. “That’s perfect,” he says and kicks Brett’s shin before he has the chance to finish his eye-roll. The pain is agonizing for a few seconds. “Did you find anything?” Stiles manages to ask without massaging his poor toes. Never kick a werewolf’s shin without shoes. Noted. 

“I found two ladders. I don’t know where they lead.” 

Quirking a brow, Brett turns to Corey. “Can you find them again?” 

Corey nods. 

“Perfect,” Brett says, obviously exceptionally thrilled about getting his will, “we’ll do that now.” 

“Uh – ” Corey tugs on his left sleeve and glances at Stiles. “If Theo’s okay with that.” 

“If Theo’s – ” Brett repeats, trailing off, and draws his eyebrows together. For a few prolonged moments, he looks as if he’s not quite sure if he imagined what he heard. The thing is, despite everything, the chimeras are loyal to Theo, especially Hayden, Josh, and Corey. Something keeps them tied to him, and it’s not just fear. They’re grateful. Maybe they think they owe him their lives. Maybe Theo is a better alpha than he first anticipated. 

Stiles can’t quite tell where this loyalty comes from, but it’s there, and he won’t deny it.

“It’s okay. You can go,” Stiles says, smiling at him. 

Josh jumps over the couch. “I’ll come as well.”

“Uh, but Theo – ”

“You heard him,” Theo says, leaning against the doorway. “If I’m not around, you’ll listen to Stiles.”

That’s not what they agreed on. “Theo – ”

“What?” he asks before Stiles can finish his sentence. Defiant, Theo crosses his arms. “I’d rather have them listen to the nemeton than a run-of-the-mill werewolf who says he doesn’t want to be alpha and then demands to have the last word.” Of course, that’s his problem. If Theo hates someone, he _hates_ them. The same goes for Scott. There’s something that caused a rift between them in the past, something Stiles doesn’t know about. There are so many alpha's whose spark he could've stolen, yet it was Scott he wanted dead. It is Scott’s whose life he still wants to ruin. It's over the top, even for Theo. Still, Stiles has no clue. He’s been wracking his brain, trying to figure out if Scott ever said anything about something happening between him and Theo. But nothing came up. Still, there has to be something. Theo bears grudges, and he will carry them to the grave. “Oh, and don’t bother bringing everyone back.” His lips curl into a crude smile, and he doesn’t even attempt to mask his disdain for Brett. Not that he needs to. They’re both terrible.

When Brett gets to his feet a bit too quickly, Stiles and Isaac follow suit. They glance at each other for all but a second, but that’s enough for Stiles to know that he thought the same thing. Luckily, they’re both wrong. Brett only smiles. It's sharp, yet it's better than the alternative. “Well, let’s go then.” 

Just to make sure, Stiles slips past Brett and Isaac and comes to a halt in front of Theo. “Hey,” he whispers, probably sounding exactly as awkward as he feels. 

Theo quirks his brows. “I’m not going to punch him.” 

Stiles squints at him. 

“Hard,” Theo adds, sliding his arms around his waist with a grin.

"I'll help," Jackson offers, instantly regretting his commitment when Lydia glares at him, arms firmly crossed in front of her chest.

Isaac studies Brett for a moment, who waits rather impatiently for Corey and Josh to move. "What's with that reputation, mate?"

Brett waves him off, but doesn’t answer the question. Not that he needed to. It isn’t hard to figure out where his rather questionable reputation comes from. People either like him or they love him, depending on the context they meet Brett in, or how fragile their ego is. Jackson and Theo just happen to fall in the latter category. Neither can handle losing very well, and they will carry that grudge until the end of their days.

It’s very likely that Stiles will have an easier time to accept that. Theo will always be bothered by Brett. Even if jealousy is out of the picture, Theo is going to find new reasons to back up his opinion on the other werewolf. To be perfectly honest, Stiles doesn’t care that much. He doesn’t need Theo to like Brett. All he wants is that he stops seeing him as some kind of threat to be eliminated. It’s not just Theo’s fault, Stiles is aware of that. They both have to step up and learn to play along. Another valuable option might be to lock them in a room and let them get it out of their system. Then again, that’s highly unfair considering that Brett has the advantage of being a born werewolf backed up by the nemeton. Something Stiles isn’t going to touch. The former nemeton most likely had a reason for its choice.Plus, now that they’re connected, he’s even more hesitant to cut ties. And for what? Because he doesn’t get along with his boyfriend? 

Stiles sighs. 

“What?” Theo asks.

Stiles looks at him. “What ‘what’?”

“What’s with the sigh?” 

“You’re an idiot,” Stiles tells him with a small grin.

Theo chuckles quietly, yet the sound bounces off the walls. It’s strangely addictive. “But I’m your idiot,” he tells him quietly and kisses the corner of his mouth almost shyly, then he pulls him closer. Sighing softly, Theo hugs him closer, pressing his lips between his ear and neck, and Stiles can’t help but shudder. 

"Doesn't make you any less of an idiot," Brett tells him because of fucking course he does. After all, he has to keep his reputation intact. Being nice is probably going to give him some kind of nasty rash. 

Theo raises his head. "Stiles isn't always around, you know?"

"What?" Brett asks, quirking a brow in the most unimpressed way Stiles has ever seen. "You wanna get your ass handed to you again?" 

"Stop it," Stiles warns, tightening his grip on Theo.

Kira exchanges a look with Lydia, who shakes her head, while Danny keeps a hand on Jackson’s upper arm. There's no need for this to escalate like this. Not even in the slightest. 

"I'm trying to keep your boyfriend alive," Brett reminds Theo, sounding more aggressive than the situation warrants. 

Stiles squirms. "Can we not throw the word boyfriend around this early?"

Theo tightens his grip almost possessively, but Brett continues to talk as if he hasn't even heard him. "So maybe you should watch your fucking tone with me, Raeken." Without another word, Brett pushes past everyone and strides out of the house. What the _hell_?

Stiles turns to look at Isaac.

"Don't ask me, he's been agitated since earlier this morning," Isaac replies with a shrug, but he carefully avoids Stiles' eye when he says it. Perhaps the whole thing with Satomi nags Brett much more than he lets on, or there’s something entirely else bothering Brett. Who the fuck knows with him sometimes? 

Theo kisses his shoulder. Stiles sighs, leaning his head against his. When this shit is over, they all deserve a break.

Kira and Hayden joined Mason and Liam on their patrol through Beacon County sometime after the others left for their mission to find a new entry into Eichen, so Stiles doesn’t have to run through the whole building with everyone on high alert during a blackout. It’s not that Brett doesn’t have a point, it’s just fucking frustrating to be the weakest link. He mocked Tracy for it only a few days ago, and now he’s in the same position. Talk about karma. 

Stiles massages his temples, listening to Jackson’s string of curses as he spectacularly loses against Theo. Seems like basketball video games aren’t really his forte. It’s an odd picture, to be totally honest. Jackson and Theo are the last people he expected to get along. Then again, they probably bonded over their hatred for Brett. Still, it’s strange. It gets weirder when Jackson tries to cheat by attempting to grab Theo’s controller. “What parallel universe did I just stumble into?” he mutters under his breath, suppressing the urge to pinch himself. Is he _really_ just watching Theo and Jackson bicker over video games, playing the waiting game, and feeling somewhat exceptionally useless? 

Seems like it. Fucking hell, what is his life? Stiles knows he’s been sidelined, nobody needs to tell him that; and all just because Brett reminded everyone that he’s the weakest link. He wouldn’t be surprised if they tried to wrap him up in cotton wool and try to convince him not to go to Eichen. 

Hopefully, Danny calls him in the next few minutes because he’s currently trying to hack into Eichen House’s security system to gather as much information as he can. Lydia accompanied him. Stiles really hopes they find something so that this plan to break Peter out of Eichen will go over as smoothly as possible. The last thing he wants is for anybody to get hurt just because Stiles throws around promises as if they’re candy. Maybe he shouldn’t have done it. Maybe it was reckless of him, but they need him. _They need him_. 

“Stilinski, could you distract Loverboy for five seconds?” Jackson asks, giving up on his first attempt at cheating. 

Stiles draws his eyebrows together. “Why should I distract Theo?” 

“Because I’m better looking.” 

Theo snorts. “We both know that’s a lie.” 

Rolling his eyes, Stiles drops onto his stomach and scoots over to the other end of the sofa. Even if Theo stopped playing for the last minute, there’s no way Jackson has any chance to catch up to him. Stiles doesn’t get the appeal of e-sport. Well, he hardly gets the appeal of real sports. He was ready to quit lacrosse if not for Jackson insisting he stay on the team for the charity game. Okay, and he loves running. He glances out the window, eyeing the rain raging outside. He can’t believe he would miss track, but here he is. 

Stiles sighs and leans over to kiss Theo’s shoulder. Although he gets a dirty look in return, Stiles leans over in further and presses his mouth to his jaw. Theo squirms a little but doesn’t pull away. Putting a hand on the ground for more leverage, Stiles kisses Theo’s cheek. At least, that’s what he aimed for. Theo has different plans. Without warning, he drops the controller in his lap and turns his head enough to cover Stiles’ mouth with his own. “Fucking traitor,” he whispers against his lips, then places a hand on the nape of Stiles’ neck and kisses him in earnest. His eyes flutter shut, and he needs both arms to keep him from toppling off the sofa.

"You're a shithead."

Stiles blinks his eyes open, pulling away from Theo with a grin. "What? I distracted him for you."

Scoffing, Jackson drops the controller between his legs. "Because you could tell I wouldn't win." 

"You just said to distract him."

Jackson pushes to his feet. "I should've known."

"Should've known what?" Stiles asks, shaking his head when Theo offers him the abandoned controller. 

“You don’t have one disloyal bone in your body.” 

Theo pushes to his feet as well, patting Stiles’ hair in an almost patronizing manner. “He’s not wrong, you know?” Of course, he agrees with Jackson. Why wouldn’t he? 

Frowning, Stiles slaps his hand away. Well, he tries to. In his uncomfortable position of being half on the couch and holding up his other half on the floor, he tumbles completely off. Because, of course, he does. Because that’s just what had to happen with Jackson around. Stiles massages the nape of his neck awkwardly. “Now, you’re overexaggerating.”

“Oh, am I?” Jackson asks, leaning against the edge of the table, and picks up one of the few remaining waffles. “If my best friend necked my crush, he wouldn’t be my best friend much longer.” Quirking a brow, he pushes a bit of waffle in his mouth. 

Stiles stands up, narrowing his eyes. Is he really just trying to make him feel bad about staying friends with Scott when he didn’t break up with Lydia? “She was your girlfriend,” he reminds Jackson, but even he notices that he sounds far too defensive for his liking. They both should’ve handled the situation better, yet they both chose the past of least resistance.

“You know just as much as I do that Lydia and I weren’t exactly the coupliest of couples.” Fair point. That’s probably a reason why Stiles couldn’t let go of her in the beginning because he had the worst crush on her for years. It’s okay that they weren’t supposed to be. He doesn’t want to have it any other way. Stiles started falling out of love with her when he realized that Lydia and Jackson did love each other during the whole kanima mess. When Lydia kissed him during his panic attack, his heart was already with somebody else. “I – ” Jackson breaks off, swallowing the waffle, and clears his throat “I dropped her shortly after, and I regretted every second of it. You, on the other hand,” he continues, jabbing a finger in Stiles’ general direction, “never did.” 

"He was my only friend," Stiles mutters.

“Nah, you were his only friend.” Jackson nods in Theo’s direction. “You always collected strays, but Scott … he was always something else to you.” 

Stiles wishes he could say something, that he could somehow deny what Jackson is saying, but looking back at everything now, he’s right. For whatever reason, he put Scott on a pedestal. Sometimes he still does. Sometimes he still thinks about excuses for what happened between them, a reason for Scott to believe Theo so blindly. He’s been doing it for years, and some habits are harder to quit than others. 

“Speaking of,” Theo says, wrapping a hand around his waist. “How’s your headache doing?” 

“Still kinda annoying… why?” Stiles asks in surprise. He’s not quite sure what this question has to do with anything. They were talking about Scott a second ago. Why – 

Jackson swallows a bite of waffle. “It won’t be going away in the near future.”

After pressing a kiss to his shoulder, Theo steps away and walks around the sofa, facing the hallway with straight shoulders and a raised chin. “I should’ve locked the door.”

“You should’ve,” Jackson agrees, and he tosses the rest of his waffle on an empty plate before hopping off the table. He’s standing a little behind Theo, occupying the empty space to his right, arms crossed in front of him. There’s a strangely familiar curve to his lips, signaling to everyone in the vicinity that he’s not particularly happy. 

The front door clicks open only a second later. Theo crosses his arms as well. “He doesn’t want to talk to you.”

“I need to talk to him.” 

Stiles closes his eyes for a second. _Fantastic_. That’s exactly what he doesn’t need today. Not with his headache, not with the general all-around mildly stressful situation with their whole plan being derailed again, and Brett continuing to rub Theo the wrong way. But mostly his weird headache. It’s annoying and slightly disconcerting, yet not painful enough to be really impossible to handle. Shaking his head, Stiles sits back down and crosses his arms over his thighs. 

“Go home, McCall.”

To nobody’s surprise, Scott doesn’t turn around. It might take him ages to get into action, but once he is, not much will stop him. “Jackson, I need to talk to Stiles,” Scott says, almost dismissively gesturing in Theo’s direction. Does he expect Jackson to push Theo out of the way for him? What the fuck is going on?

However, neither boy moves. They’re just standing there, more or less blocking the door. The only way for Scott to get to Stiles is through them. “I didn’t come back for you, McCall,” Jackson tells him and shifts even closer to Theo than before. They are almost standing shoulder to shoulder now, creating a force to be reckoned with.

Scott looks just as confused about this new development as Stiles. To be honest, he really doesn’t know how to feel about Jackson and Theo bonding over their dislike for other people. That’s not a healthy basis for any sort of relationship. Stiles doesn’t need to be babied either. He doesn’t need to be protected. Still, they all know Scott won’t leave, and Stiles doesn’t want to risk Theo flying off the handle. “Keep it short,” Stiles says, pulling his left leg to his chest.

“Can I sit down?” 

Theo shakes his head. “You don’t need to get comfortable.” 

Scott’s expression darkens. Not for long. It’s just a second, vanished within the blink of an eye, but Stiles noticed it. Seeing how Jackson lowers his arms, spine as straight as an arrow, he’s not the only one. Jackson works his jaw, studying Scott and his chemosignals closely. It’s more than anger spreading in the room. It’s impossible to pinpoint. Stiles is far from in tune enough with this side of him, and he doesn’t like to focus on it either. It’s too intimate. 

“Fine,” Scott says, returning his attention to Stiles. “At least turn on the light. It’s dark – ”

“It’s perfectly fine as it is,” Theo interrupts him, and for the first time, Stiles realizes that they haven’t turned on the lights since they arrived. Even the blinds are still partially lowered. They've been sitting in dim lighting the whole time, and Stiles didn't even notice. That can't be a good sign.

Scott shakes his head, closing his eyes for a second. “Why are you doing this?”

Stiles knows that tone. It’s the same one he used during their conversation in front of Deaton’s. Accusatory. Disappointed. A little patronizing. “Doing what?” he asks, although it doesn’t take a genius to figure out why Scott is here. He probably learned out about Stiles’ alliance with the chimera pack. Now, he isn’t happy about it, and when he didn’t find them at Stiles’ place, he took his chance and came over. Even a broken clock is right twice a day. 

When Scott tries to slip past him, Theo simply moves to block him. Jackson steps forward to keep the empty space as narrow as possible. “Stiles – ” Scott starts. There’s an edge of helplessness in his tone, and he pauses. Strangely enough, even if silence feels like a demand. It’s like he’s waiting for Stiles to say something, to jump into one of his rambles to explain away what he’s thinking and doing and planning. 

Another old habit, but this one is much easier to fight off. Stiles taps his finger against his ankle, missing Theo’s touch all of a sudden, and simply looks at Scott. 

“You shouldn’t be helping them.”

“Why not?” Stiles wonders. 

“Yeah, why not?” Theo asks, tilting his head a little to the left. Although Stiles can’t see his face from where he sits, he can tell that he’s grinning. “Someone has to protect him from Donovan.” 

Confusion flickers over Scott’s features, barely long enough to be noticeable. It’s a feeling Stiles can relate to. What does Donovan have to do with anything right now? Although Stiles appreciates that Theo doesn’t mention anything about Peter, mentioning Donovan in this context sounds way too deliberate. And it’s not like Theo to just throw things out there. He always has a goal. 

Scott swallows and looks back at Stiles. 

“I know you saw him,” Theo says in a low voice. When Scott doesn’t reply, he keeps pushing. “What did you think was going to happen in that bathroom?”

Stiles straightens, dread pooling in his stomach. “What are you talking about?” 

For a flicker of a second, Theo looks in his direction. It’s hard to read his expression that quickly, but Stiles notices something shift in the air. Guilt. Soft, barely noticeable guilt. It’s impossible to tell who it’s coming from. Scott or Theo? 

Jackson narrows his eyes. “Are you talking about what happened to Stiles at that party?” Right, he knows about it because Theo called Lydia while he had been passed out on the couch. "What's McCall got to do with it?"

Theo's back muscles move as he uncrosses his arms, pointing at Scott. "He saw Donovan follow Stiles but only mentioned something after Brett dragged him outside, and Isaac said he couldn’t find Stiles." 

Stiles stiffens. Why the _fuck_ would Theo keep something like that from him? He should’ve told him. Someone should’ve told him, but instead, Brett, Isaac, and Theo chose to keep quiet about it. He can’t say much about Brett and Isaac’s decision; however, he knows very well why Theo kept this information to himself. It’s another bomb. Another backup in case Stiles and Scott would’ve rekindled. 

It’s so fucking childish. 

“So, I ask you again, what did you think – ”

“Out,” Stiles says, getting to his feet, “I want him out.” His heart hammers against his ribs. He knew. He knew Donovan followed him, and he didn’t _stop_ him? That’s a joke. It has to be a joke. Scott couldn’t really think – Stiles’ chest constricts, and air catches in his throat. He trusted Theo. No matter how often Stiles warned him, Scott only saw the good in Theo. Why should it be any different with Donovan? After all, he thought Stiles should apologize to him because he fought for his life and won. Not even Donovan wanted an apology. He doesn’t even hate him for what happened. 

Donovan hates him because Stiles made a fool out of him in front of a few deputies because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut, because he – 

“Stiles – ”

“Get him _out_ ,” Stiles yells, squeezing his eyes shut as the pain in his head triples. Magic slams against the insides of his skull. He can feel it hammering away at his resistance, pounding its fists against doors Stiles desperately tries to keep closed. His magic never hurt like this before. It shouldn’t hurt. It _can’t_ hurt, and yet, it does. With wave after wave of nauseating pain.

Something is wrong. 

He should’ve known. He should’ve known the second the headache started that something wasn’t right. It’s the ley lines. Something is happening to the ley lines. They don’t _listen_. They’re thrashing underneath his skin, thrashing as if he kept them caged. 

“What the fuck?” Jackson utters. “Stiles, your nose. You’re … bleeding?”

Stiles blinks his eyes open, wiping away the blood from underneath his nose. It’s not getting better. This isn’t getting better at all. Now he’s – Stiles stares at the back of his hand, and for a second, his world freezes. 

That’s not just blood. 

It’s mercury. 

**Author's Note:**

> You can also find me over on [tumblr](https://msmischief101.tumblr.com/) or the [steo discord server](https://discord.gg/P2GBy4).


End file.
